


just grays and half-lives

by daydreamn019



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Flashbacks, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hospitalization, On Hiatus, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, alternatively titled as: The Epsilon Incident Part II, mcd is for epsilon bc he still goes bye bye, spoilers up to s13 finale
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:08:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 36,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22780771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daydreamn019/pseuds/daydreamn019
Summary: Aboard the Staff of Charon, Epsilon shatters in Tucker’s implants. He does not go quietly.Wash is reminded that, no matter how much time passes, Epsilon's memories will never fully disappear.//on hiatus
Relationships: AI Program Epsilon | Leonard Church & Agent Washington, AI Program Epsilon | Leonard Church & Lavernius Tucker, Lavernius Tucker & Agent Washington
Comments: 26
Kudos: 62





	1. static

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (title from forever//over by eden; chapter titles from the albums no future and vertigo by eden)
> 
> the first fic im writing to cope w church's death, hoping that i'll become desensitized to it as i write more abt it D;
> 
> this is not beta-read, so forgive me if there are some mistakes or other weird things like characterization, minor plot inconsistencies, dialogue, pacing (god, the pacing...im rlly out of practice lol). im not entirely sure when i'd be able to update next since i'm about to be very busy over the next few months, but hopefully i can eke one out before spring recess rolls around

It’s pretty fucking weird, having Church in his head.

Tucker’s known him for seven years in several different forms, but Epsilon’s never been in his implants. He seems content with just hanging out in Carolina’s, and it’s not like the rest of them are scrambling to have an asshole ghost in their brain. Wash has always been wary, but that’s a given considering, well, he’s _Wash._ Tucker’s just never really cared about the whole fuss. Computer or not, Church is still a fucking jackass. 

_Fuck off, I can hear you,_ Church gripes, and Tucker starts. Shit, he’s still not used to sharing a headspace with someone else. _I’ll lock you in the armor and leave you to rot._

Tucker scowls as he fastens one of the arm pieces of the Meta suit. _That’s fucked-up, dude. And stop reading my thoughts._

_Stop thinking so loud then, jackass._

Tucker huffs, but he glances down at the Meta helmet in his hands and the retort dies in his throat. He can almost imagine the Meta growling, charging at them with the Brute Shot at Sidewinder. He was terrifyingly big and fucking scary as _hell,_ but his armor...fits quite nicely, actually. The pieces are heavier than his normal Mark VI suit, though, and Epsilon needs to help him run it. The Meta suit’s A.I. slot is damaged, so there’s only the other option.

 _God, can you put this on any slower?_ Epsilon’s exasperation is so palpable Tucker nearly drops his sword. He’s still getting used to _feeling_ Church’s emotions, too—concern for Carolina and Wash, anger at Hargrove, the ache of seeing Tex’s cracked helmet. It’s small enough not to be _too_ distracting, though, and it’s not like Tucker’s gonna sit down and talk it all out with him. 

The anger, though, Tucker understands. He dons the helmet and blinks a few times. The HUD flickers to life, and the armor pieces become less heavy. Tucker grips his sword and moves his arms around, trying to get accustomed to it.

 _So how’s it feel?_ Epsilon asks, but it sounds like he already knows the answer. 

Tucker turns back to the others, who seem ready as well. They’re all holding their weapons and looking at _him._ Like he and Epsilon are the ones who know what to do next. 

_Fucking badass,_ Tucker responds, activating his sword. The suit changes from white to aqua, and he whistles quietly. What a nice feature. 

“Now _that’s_ a good look on you!” Donut chirps. Tucker grins.

_Bet all the ladies are gonna love me after this._

Church snorts. _Don’t kid yourself._ But there’s an ache in Tucker’s head, brief, that feels just like the moment he saw Tex’s helmet. Tucker blinks, trying to reach out to it, but the feeling vanishes, leaving behind an emptiness that nearly makes him shiver. _Tucker, I_ —

_“Prepare to breach!”_

Tucker snaps to attention, gripping his sword. Sparks fly as the soldiers start cutting through the door. Around him, the others are aiming their weapons.

“Gentlemen,” Sarge says, cocking his shotgun, “looks like this is it.”

Simmons responds, but Tucker doesn’t listen, taking a deep breath. They can do this. They _have_ to do this. 

“Hey.” Church appears at Tucker’s shoulder, shimmering a soft blue light. “Uh...I just want you guys to know that, out of everyone I've ever met…” He floats in front of them, his shotgun still in his hands. “I hate you all the least.”

Tucker almost snorts, because that’s such a typical thing to hear from an asshole like Church, but he almost freezes when he feels that _ache_ again, stronger this time. Church is pulling away even further from him, which is...weird. His tone was weird, too, carrying more weight than it should. Who knew he would be so touchy-feely in a time like _this?_

 _Church?_ he asks. There’s no response. Church probably has diagnostics and statistics to run, to calculate the chances of their survival. They’re not _that_ low, right?

The door is almost cut through completely. Tucker grips his sword tighter and figures, hey, he can ask after the fight. If they all get out alive. “See you on the other side, Church.”

A soft, nearly inaudible sigh. The sparks reach the bottom of the door, then go out.

_“Now!”_

The door comes crashing down. 

And the Meta suit _crackles_ with power. 

Tucker leaps forward as soon as the first soldier barges inside, stabbing him through the chest. The rest of Hargrove’s forces crowd the room, and all hell breaks loose.

Everything becomes a blur. The suit hums with power as he cuts down enemy after enemy, his energy sword ablaze. Tucker grins, swinging as he dodges attacks like a fucking _pro._

_Is this why the Meta managed to kill everyone?_ he wonders. _Man, if I had his armor, I could totally take him!_

Tucker scans the room. The others are holding pretty well on their own. Grif wielding his Brute Shot, Simmons backing him up with his Magnum. Caboose is yelling encouragement to Freckles as he shoots down soldiers, while Sarge is yelling insults as he aims his shotgun. 

They’re doing it. They’re actually doing well, and not dying from the get-go. Tucker stabs another enemy and pushes forward. The adrenaline is making it hard to think, but he doesn’t really need to—it’s natural, the movement of his arms and body, like Church is working with him as one person, one mind—

As Tucker vaults over the table and spears three guys with one stroke of his sword, a sudden sting of pain flares back up in the back of his neck. It throws him off for a moment, and he almost gets his brains blown out by another soldier, but Lopez appears next to him and shoots him first.

“Dios mío,” _{Jesus Christ.}_ Lopez grumbles. “Recuérdame, ¿por qué te dejamos usar la armadura?” _{Remind me, why did we let you use the suit?}_

“Thanks,” Tucker says, hoping Lopez didn’t insult him. Lopez just sighs and turns away. Tucker turns, too, slicing down another guy and jumping back into the fight. _Church?_

No response, probably because he’s busy powering the suit. But as Tucker keeps fighting, the pain grows more insistent, harder to ignore. He doesn’t remember getting hit there, and it doesn’t seem like a regular wound—it feels staticky, almost, like he’s getting repeatedly shocked at the site of his implants, and it makes him feel dizzy. This probably isn’t normal.

He stumbles to the wall and just tries to regain his breath, for a moment. Donut glances at him.

“Are you okay, Tucker?” he asks, earnest. “Are they tiring you out already?”

Tucker opens his mouth to respond, or at least say _bow-chicka-bow-wow,_ but nothing comes out. He just gives Donut a weak thumbs-up with his free hand, which seems to be enough for him, because he turns back to the fight. Tucker grits his teeth and pushes off from the wall. He can’t afford to slack off because of a bit of pain.

 _Church?_ he asks again. He can’t feel him, for some reason. He can’t feel anything except the increasing pain, almost like it’s expanding, taking up tangible space. _Hey, a little help here?_

Still no answer, not even to tell him to stop being a little bitch. Tucker jabs at another guy trying to sneak up on him and nearly falls over from the effort. This isn’t good. Did something happen to Church? Is the Meta suit broken? 

Maybe it wasn’t the best idea to use the suit. Maybe they could’ve done without it. Because something’s wrong with Church, maybe he’s been hurt, or hacked, or whatever the fuck happens to A.I., and they’re kinda depending on him to get them out alive.

Panic begins to snake up Tucker’s throat. The ache is no longer just at the back of his neck but in his skull as well. His ears ring, dizzying, a stabbing pain right between his eyes. He nearly trips over his own feet, his armor feeling heavier and heavier. 

_Are you...sure about this?_ a voice asks. Tucker starts. It’s not Church. It’s a much calmer voice, though hesitant, and the only response Tucker feels is a weary—

_I’m sure._

Tucker is _certain_ that’s Epsilon, but it still feels strange. Weakly, he calls out a third time, _Church?_

Nothing yet again. He prods at the space Epsilon is taking up in his head. His implants flare up with pain, sucking the air out of his lungs, but he shoves past whatever mental barriers are in place and reaches out further. _Dude, what’s happening—_

There’s a blinding white flash, so loud it rings in his ears, so bright it burns into the back of his eyelids, and so hot it makes his skin crackle with pain. Tucker stumbles, gasping, his heart slamming against his ribcage.

_Not this time, buddy._

It’s Church’s voice, but not really. It’s distorted, multiple tones laid on top of each other, overlapping, whispering but building into a crescendo, frantic and wretched. He can’t make out the words even as they start screaming, and Tucker realizes with a twist of his gut that this is _very much not Church._ This is someone else, in his head, and he has no fucking idea who it is.

Tucker’s body goes on autopilot, his arms slashing through enemies on their own accord, but the suit is starting to feel like a prison, a vessel, trapping all those voices in with him. He doesn’t know what they’re saying, can barely pick out the individual words, visceral screams of _Allison_ and flashes of a woman’s face, murmurs of _he’s ready_ and _hand me the Epsilon unit, he’s prepped for the A.I._ Then the smallest fragments of a weary but steady voice, the last remnants, _deconstruct myself...Doyle...have to have faith._

_Don’t say goodbye._

_Ain’t that a—_

Glass shatters, like a gunshot. Tucker reels back and blinks and suddenly he’s no longer in the trophy room, he’s in some sort of—

Some sort of operating room, white lights glaring from above, and he’s stumbling off a hospital bed, surrounded by orderlies. But the pain doesn’t fucking stop, he’s screaming in a voice that isn’t his own but sounds so familiar it haunts him. The doctor approaches him as he staggers, thrashing, clawing at his head, _get it out get it out get it OUT—_

But at the same time he’s standing outside, a camera in hand, and Allison is right in front of him, it’s the last time he’ll see her but he doesn’t know it yet. She’s telling him to stop, he can’t, he doesn’t want to see her go, and she doesn’t want to say goodbye yet she’s leaving, she’s _gone,_ and her name is on his lips but it hurts to say it—

_Agent Washington’s vitals are spiking—_

_Leonard, come on, stop it—_

“Tucker?”

Tucker drops his sword and doesn’t hear it clatter on the ground. He doesn’t know if there’s any more enemies in the room, doesn’t know if they’ve won. There are too many voices, too many memories, and Epsilon is made of them but he’s _gone_ and now—

_I know how to fix all of this. How to end it once and for all._

_I wish that there was another way._

“Tucker!”

Hands clamp down on Tucker’s arms, exactly like the memories, trying to stop his movements as if that’ll stop the flashes of Allison’s face and Epsilon’s voice, holding him down and he wants them _off,_ wants them _away._ He wretches himself out of their grasp and thinks someone is calling for him again but it just mixes in with the rest of the voices, other names he doesn’t know, other memories that aren’t his. 

_Secure him! Get him—_

Tucker staggers and rips off his helmet, his chest heaving in ragged breaths. The world tilts and trembles and tears itself apart as the pain shoots through his whole body, and he can’t tell if he’s still screaming or not. Everything hurts, it feels like he’s being broken into pieces, split apart and _crying_ and the memories are too much, he has to get rid of them, he _can’t._ His vision tunnels, his ears still ringing, and he doesn’t know where he is—in the trophy room, on the hospital bed, standing in front of Allison and begging her not to go. 

Someone touches him again. Tucker flinches and lashes out, his fist slamming against something solid. There’s a shout, but another hand grabs him, and they don’t _leave him alone,_ the voices and the arms reaching out to hold his limbs in place, to stop him from writhing and expelling the poison, the pain, and it’s fucking _killing_ him, Epsilon is in front of him shattering, the sound still loud and echoing, nearly drowning out everything around him—

“Lopez, help me grab an arm here—”

 _“Shit,_ why is he so fucking _strong?”_

More hands hold him in place. Tucker gasps and thrashes and can’t see anything, the voices melt into incoherent screams, he’s dimly aware of his throat becoming hoarse but it does nothing to stop him.

Another face appears, a young girl with red hair, green eyes blinking up at him with innocence and then joy and then grief, and she’s asking where her mom is and he has to tell her, he has to say the words, but that makes it _real,_ and he can’t bear the thought that she’s gone forever. He has to bring her back, through memories, through whatever means possible, he doesn’t want to live in a world without—

Allison flickers in front of him again. Then Epsilon. Then the operating room again, the Director’s harsh voice barely audible over his screaming. Tucker can’t move and he can’t fight back and the sensation of _everything_ is crashing into him, thoughts that don’t belong in his head and he needs to _get away,_ he needs to _run_ before Allison leaves, before they sedate him, before Hargrove’s forces finish them off—

“Sorry about this, son,” someone familiar says, gruff. Tucker flinches, too overwhelmed to identify the voice, to find out if it’s enemy or friend. He tries to break out of their hold, twisting, but it’s too much, the memories, Allison’s face and Epsilon’s voice and the hum of the operating room, it hurts, he wants it to _stop—_

Something metal slams into the back of Tucker’s head, knocking him forward, and the world abruptly sinks to black.

  
  
  


Wash knows something’s wrong the moment the Reds and Blues step off the Pelican. 

Doc and Donut are out first, stumbling down the ramp in a frantic way that quiets the cheering of the Chorusans around them, which only entails bad news. Not death—no, they’d be slower, more hesitant, shoulders slumped in defeat and movements weighed down by grief. But this kind of panic… 

Grif and Simmons are next, Simmons leaning heavily against Grif’s side as Lopez and Sarge tail them. And Caboose is shoving his way to the front, cradling a familiar aqua-armored figure in his arms.

Wash’s heart stops.

He’s running forward in the blink of an eye, Carolina hot on his heels. His chest tightens in fear as he gets closer. 

Simmons has an arm curled protectively around his side, slumped heavily against Grif’s shoulder. Donut is limping slightly, clutching an aqua helmet in his arms. Tucker, helmetless, looks like absolute shit—blood drips from the back of his neck, and there’s a nasty bump on his head. He’s limp in Caboose’s arms but muttering to himself, delirious and incoherent. 

“What happened?” Wash demands when he reaches them. Behind him, he hears Carolina snap for someone to get Dr. Grey.

“Simmons got himself shot twice, Tucker went crazy, and Doc is the most useless fucking doctor in the entire galaxy,” Grif snaps, but there’s clear worry in his voice.

“I’m a medic!” Doc protests. 

“‘Went crazy?’” Carolina asks, the frown in her voice audible. “What do you mean?”

“Tucker was yelling too loud,” Caboose says, worried. “So the Sergeant hit him very hard.” 

_“What?”_ Wash almost winces at the shrillness of his own voice. He whirls around to glare at Sarge. “Why the hell—”

“I had no choice,” Sarge says, and even he sounds a bit unsettled. “Your Blue over here was going crazy, screaming and flailing all over the place. I had to knock him out before he hurt one of my men. Or himself.”

“‘Screaming?’” Wash echoes. “How—why—”

“Coming through!” a voice sing-songs from behind them. Dr. Grey approaches through the gathered crowd of soldiers, followed by a few nurses with stretchers. “Please clear the way or I _will_ give you a reason to visit the medical tent later!”

That makes everyone move out of the way pretty quickly. Dr. Grey takes a look at Tucker. “Oh, dear. That doesn’t look very good. Help me put him on the stretcher. And Captain Simmons, as well. DuFresne, I need some extra hands here, if you don’t mind—”

“Sure!” Doc says as Grif groans, “Oh, god, he’s going to kill Simmons.”

“Epsilon?” Carolina asks. “Do you have a read on Tucker’s vitals?”

“Church is not answering,” Caboose says. “I think he is asleep.”

Wash stares as Tucker’s loaded onto the stretcher, still murmuring feverishly and shifting slightly, even unconscious. Simmons practically collapses onto his own stretcher, clearly having used most of his strength by walking here. Grif hovers over him nervously.

“Blues and their need to one-up us superior Reds,” Sarge grumbles. “I knew that Meta suit was bad news from the beginning.” 

Wash blinks. Feels something cold crawl up his spine. “The _what?”_

No one responds. Wash finally tears his eyes away from Tucker, his gaze landing on the helmet in Donut’s arms. It’s the right shade, but the model is completely different. It’s not Tucker’s. It’s—

Carolina stalks forward. “Why the hell do you have Maine’s helmet?” 

“It was Church’s idea!” Donut yelps as Carolina snatches it from him. 

Wash stares. It’s definitely Maine’s, despite the aqua color—dents in the right places, scratches from hundreds of Project Freelancer missions. He looks back at Tucker, who isn’t wearing his normal Mark VI armor. “Where did you even _find_ it?”

“H-Hargrove’s trophy room,” Donut says, scooching behind Lopez. “Church found it and said we needed it! But…” He glances at Tucker, his lower lip quivering. “Tucker just started screaming in the middle of the fight, out of nowhere. And he was bleeding from his implants.” 

Wash feels an old fear rise in him, his muscles tensing. It’s been a long time since he’s had that reaction. Since he’s been afraid of what Epsilon can do, of the possibility that it’ll happen again. But he forces those fears away—Tucker is Epsilon’s friend, and there are a thousand other things Wash should consider, because the Epsilon that exists now would never do that to him. Right?

“Church tried to run the suit?” Wash asks. Their faces are enough of a confirmation. 

_“Epsilon,”_ Carolina growls, gripping Maine’s helmet so tightly it seems like it could almost break. “What was he thinking?”

“What suit?” Dr. Grey asks. She looks back and forth between Tucker and the helmet. “Huh. Interesting! I’ll get him out of there and inspect it back in the medical tent. May I?”

She reaches for the helmet. Carolina reluctantly hands it to her, a frown on her face. 

The nurses behind Dr. Grey are beginning to wheel Tucker away. Wash immediately steps forward, but he barely gets a syllable out before she interrupts.

“The tent is practically full, Agent Washington, Captain Grif,” she says, her voice a degree softer. Wash spots Grif a pace behind him, probably ready to ask the same question. “I can’t have too many people inside. I’m sorry, but I assure you your friends are in good hands.”

With that, Simmons and Tucker are wheeled away. Doc follows Dr. Grey, the crowd parting to let them through. As soon as they’re gone, though, the Feds and Rebels surround them again, eager and full of questions.

“Captain Caboose!” someone calls. Within seconds Caboose and Grif are circled by their lieutenants, some of whom Wash recognizes, and they’re all talking over each other. The Feds are there, too, chattering with Donut and Sarge. 

Wash blinks as he hears them cheering. They’ve won, to some extent, he realizes. They’ve killed Felix, deactivated the Mantises, and escaped the Staff of Charon. But he can’t feel a hundred percent relieved, not when Tucker and Simmons stumbled off the ship looking like _that,_ not when Epsilon is still unresponsive and Carolina is staring after Dr. Grey with a stormy look in her eyes. 

He talks to some of the soldiers, who seem a little more grateful about all the training he put them through. But it’s not enough to distract him, and he keeps looking at the direction of the medical tent even though Tucker is already out of view.

“I can’t believe Hargrove had the suit all this time,” Carolina says after the crowd has lessened somewhat, and the two of them are standing a ways from Caboose and his lieutenant. 

“Yeah,” Wash says numbly. He thinks about the armor, how it was tinted aqua but otherwise looked exactly the same as it had years ago. His heart spasms in his chest. 

Carolina looks at him, ducking her head as if trying to meet his gaze, but he refuses to glance up at her. “I’m sure Tucker and Simmons will be fine, Wash.” 

She only sounds about half-way convinced herself. Wash swallows.

“Right,” he says, resisting the urge to touch the back of his neck. 

Carolina doesn’t say anything else, and there’s no Epsilon or Tucker to fill the silence with sarcastic remarks. Wash looks at the soldiers scattered around the battle site, their movements more lively than he’s ever seen them. His gaze lands on the medical tent, and the worry still lodges inside his chest, palpable.

One way or another, it’s over.

  
  
  


When Kimball summons them to her tent, there’s a tired but hard-earned smile on her face, of a general that, after so many years, has led her people to victory. 

They give her a summary of what happened at the temple and on the Staff of Charon. She tells them that they found and captured Hargrove.

“His forces have been stopped, and the Space Pirates are scattered,” she says. “We cannot thank you enough for helping us.” 

“You’re fucking welcome,” Grif says. He looks as antsy as Wash feels. “We nearly died on that ship.”

“But Church saved the day,” Caboose pipes up. Grif scoffs, but Kimball speaks again before he can retort. 

“You got through it,” she says. “You were willing to give your lives for a cause that, a few months ago, you wanted nothing to do with. That’s respectable. I’m glad the New Republic and the Federal Army had captains like you. We really needed your assistance.”

 _No problem,_ gets stuck on Wash’s throat. It feels...too nonchalant, especially after the Staff of Charon. Kimball seems to understand, so she doesn’t take too long of a pause before moving on.

“Of course, there’s still much to be done—talks with the UNSC, making sure the last of the Space Pirates are gone, and building memorials for those we’ve lost. But you’ve done your part. You stayed, even though this was not your fight.”

“What’s going to happen to Hargrove?” Carolina asks, her hands curled into fists. 

“We’ll turn him over to the UNSC, most likely.” Kimball’s eyes harden. “He’ll face justice for his crimes. And Locus…” She exhales. “I’ll send a team out to look for him. And Felix’s body.”

“He better be dead,” Sarge mutters. “He’s almost worse than the other orange dirtbag in this room.”

Wash almost shudders just from thinking of Felix. Anxiety still sits heavily in the pit of his stomach, even though Kimball looks—not relaxed, really, but relieved. 

“Now there’s a question of what you all will do next,” Kimball says. Wash doesn’t miss how the Reds and Blues perk up at her words. Grif, who seemed to be spacing out for a while, snaps back to attention. “I would immensely appreciate your help rebuilding our planet, but I’m not forcing you to stay here on Chorus. I understand that you never wanted to be here in the first place.”

She pauses, glancing at them. Sarge speaks up. “What are you saying?”

“If you want to go back to your original destination,” Kimball says, “I can arrange a ship for you all to get off Chorus.”

Wash blinks, caught off-guard by the offer. His mind almost recoils at the thought of leaving, even though he was the one who didn’t want anything to do with the war at first. After so many months of being here, though...

“It’ll take a while to get the resources, but it can be done,” Kimball continues. “You don’t have to decide now. I’ll give you time to recover and consider it.”

“We can just leave?” Grif asks, sounding shocked. Donut and Sarge look startled by the offer, too. Caboose is blinking at Kimball, eyes wide. “We can just go back to _Blood Gulch?”_

“Or wherever you want to go, if your ideal destination has changed,” Kimball clarifies. “There’s plenty of uninhabited moons surrounding Chorus, if you want to go somewhere peaceful and quiet.”

Wash glances at Carolina. She meets his gaze briefly. _Later,_ her expression conveys. _We’ll discuss it when we’re all together._

“Thank you,” Carolina says. Kimball shakes her head.

“It’s the least I can do. Especially since everyone considers you war heroes now.”

Tucker would be bragging right now if he were here. The room feels oddly dull without his interjections. Wash swallows and tries not to think about that—he’s acting like Tucker _died,_ christ. He’s being overdramatic.

“We’ll be moving out and heading back to base soon,” Kimball continues. “There’s still a few more injured soldiers that the doctors need to tend to. In the meantime, make yourselves comfortable. We’ll discuss the next step more in-depth when we are back at base.”

With that, she dismisses them. Grif and Donut immediately make a beeline to the medical tent, as does Caboose. Wash hangs back with Carolina, who is glancing at him with a touch of concern in her gaze. 

“You have that look on your face,” she says once the others have gone far enough ahead and they’re alone. “What are you thinking?”

Wash sighs and tries to loosen the tension in his body, but anxiety remains coiled tight inside him. “I’m just...worried.”

“Not unusual,” Carolina says wryly, but she doesn’t seem very relaxed either. “I get it, though. Seeing Maine’s helmet…”

“Yeah,” Wash manages. An image of Maine flashes in his head—sitting together in the cafeteria of _Mother of Invention,_ before Epsilon, before Sigma. He can’t tell if the memory is more comforting or painful. “How did Hargrove even have it?”

“I don’t know,” Carolina says, staring into the distance. “And Epsilon malfunctioned again, too.” She turns to him, a pensive frown on her face. “Remember a few weeks ago, when I was fighting Sharkface and—”

“Epsilon disappeared,” Wash finishes, feeling guilty at the small glint of relief that sparks inside him. Maybe Epsilon just overloaded himself momentarily, and it’s not as bad as Wash thinks it is, Epsilon will come back, Tucker will be fine. 

Carolina nods. “I pushed him too far and he didn’t run my enhancements in time. He’s an old A.I., but I told him we needed every advantage we could get, and he…” She exhales. “He told me I almost crossed the line that Maine did. Trying to gain more and more power.”

Wash recoils like he’s been stung. “What? That’s completely—”

“Wrong, I know. And Epsilon never knew Maine like we did.” Carolina glances at him. “It just seems…like a weird coincidence. That he mentions Maine, and weeks later finds his armor just sitting on Hargrove’s ship.”

Wash swallows and tries not to think about Maine going over the edge, his last shout before he fell. There’s still some guilt inside him, even though that wasn’t Maine anymore. That was the Meta, and he was going to kill them.

Carolina’s gaze softens painfully. Wash tries to avoid her eyes. 

Neither of them like talking about Project Freelancer. But Wash can’t help _thinking_ about it. “Maine never wanted to become anything like the Meta. It was Sigma’s fault.”

“Right,” Carolina says quietly. “And Epsilon didn’t know what he was talking about.” Her voice sharpens slightly. “After that lecture, I can’t believe he tried to _run_ the suit. He couldn't even run my armor enhancements.” She shakes her head. “I’m going to kill him when we get him back online. Why did he think that was a good idea?”

Wash doesn’t have an answer except a worst-case scenario, one he doesn’t even want to fathom. He’s pretty sure it’s written all over his face, obvious at least to Carolina, but she doesn’t seem to want to voice it, either. It’s too painful, too raw to even think about.

“Come on,” Wash says instead. “Let’s go check on Tucker.” 

Carolina doesn’t object. They walk the rest of the way to the med tent, Wash’s heart hammering in his chest in a stubborn crescendo. He tries to think of something else, anything else to distract himself, but his mind keeps returning to Tucker and Epsilon. 

The tent is packed with cots and medics rushing around. Wash spots Doc with one of Grif’s lieutenants. Simmons is lying awake on a cot in the corner, Grif at his side. The tiniest bit of relief flickers in Wash’s chest, but as he continues to look around, Tucker is nowhere in sight. 

A few paces away, Caboose is talking with Dr. Grey. She’s holding Maine’s helmet in her arms. She spots them and immediately hurries over. Wash braces himself.

“There you are!” Dr. Grey chirps. Wash strains for any sign of worry in her voice, but it’s hard to tell. “I was waiting to talk to you three at once.” She cocks her head in Simmons’ direction. “As you can see, Captain Simmons is awake and on his way to a quick recovery. Tucker, though, needs more rest. You can’t visit him quite yet.” Dr. Grey’s eyes flicker to one of the curtained-off areas of the tent. 

“How is he?” Carolina asks, her voice strained with worry. Wash feels his heart jump to his throat, his chest tightening with every second of silence, panic scrambling inside of his head and dreading the worst—

“Physically, Tucker will recover just fine as well. He had a concussion, bleeding from the implantation site, and overall stress on his whole body. Nothing fatal.” Dr. Grey hands Maine’s helmet to Wash. “The armor is certainly...interesting. Quite old, but still very functional, though it takes a lot of energy to power it.” She retrieves something else from her pocket and gives it to Carolina. “Here. I put your A.I. friend in this storage unit after I got him out of the implants. He should be back if you plug it in.” 

Wash should feel relieved, but he doesn’t. His mind is too preoccupied to examine the helmet in his hands. “And the screaming?” 

“I’m not entirely sure,” Dr. Grey says. Her voice isn’t as cheery as it usually is, but she doesn’t sound particularly concerned, either. “A.I. are _very_ intriguing! It’s a shame I’ve never quite dealt with them before. Captain Tucker’s reaction was likely due to the excruciating pain from his implants. That armor really took a large toll on his body, and probably overloaded him. It took him a while to calm down, but he should be waking up soon.”

“He is okay?” Caboose asks. Dr. Grey nods, and Caboose’s posture relaxes. “That is good. Church will be happy because he saved the day.”

Wash glances at Carolina. She’s studying the Epsilon unit, some of the tension in her shoulders gone. If Epsilon is fine, things should be okay, right? He’s still here, and Tucker will recover. But it still sounds a little too optimistic.

“Epsilon is old for an A.I.,” Dr. Grey says. “I suggest you warn him before he pulls any more stunts like that. Kimball likes her captains intact.” 

“Already on it,” Carolina mutters. She glances up. “Thank you, Doctor.” 

“Not a problem.” Dr. Grey’s gaze falls on Wash. “Don’t worry about your friend. Captain Tucker is quite resilient.”

Wash exhales. Yeah, he knows that. If Tucker could hear his thoughts he’d be bitching about how Wash doesn’t have faith in him, about how weak he thinks Tucker is. And it’s not _that,_ it’s—

“Now shoo!” Dr. Grey exclaims, gesturing at the entrance. “I understand that you want to see him, but he needs rest, and so do all of you. Besides, we’re still quite busy. None of you have the medical experience to help me perform an amputation on this next patient, so run along. Do tell Sarge that concussions are very boring injuries, and next time he should think of more creative ways to give me patients.”

No one wants to question her after that, so they hurry out of the medical tent. Wash forces himself to relax. Tucker will be okay. Carolina is gripping the Epsilon unit in her hands and Caboose is bouncing on the balls of his feet in excitement to see Church again. Things will be _fine._

(Until they’re not. Until something goes wrong, someone fucks up, and someone else takes the fall for it. Never let your hopes get too high; good things don’t _last._ Not after she died, and Leonard Church fell apart.)

Wash doesn’t even have to turn to know that Carolina is looking at him, the concern in her gaze burning into the side of his head. Caboose is happily oblivious, blabbering to the unit as if Epsilon could hear him right now. 

“It would probably be best if we plugged him into a computer,” Wash asks without meeting her gaze. “But I don’t think there’s any—”

“He’ll just be fine if I put him in my armor.”

Wash immediately stops in his tracks. When he doesn’t respond, Carolina turns around. Her brow furrows. 

“Wash…”

Wash swallows and tries to relax, feeling self-conscious under Carolina’s gaze. Caboose has stopped, too, blinking back and forth between them in confusion. 

“Wash,” Carolina says, firm but gentler. “We need to get Epsilon online again.”

Caboose bobs his head enthusiastically in agreement. “He has to wake up from naptime.” 

_No_ gets stuck in Wash’s throat, and he hates himself for wanting to say it in the first place. He’s being paranoid. It’s just her armor’s empty slot, not even her implants. Epsilon’s been in there a thousand times, and he wouldn’t do anything bad, regardless. He’s changed, no longer just the shattered fragment of the Director. He cares about Tucker and Carolina. 

But what if Epsilon isn’t even there? What if something worse happened, and they still can’t get him back? And that would mean… 

“Okay,” Wash forces himself to say. “But let’s find somewhere indoors, at least.”

Carolina seems to be satisfied enough by his response, because she continues walking. They find a small tent for some privacy, after asking a few soldiers Caboose knows to hang out elsewhere. 

Wash places Maine’s helmet gently on a nearby table as Caboose helps Carolina insert the Epsilon unit into her armor. He’s still talking to Church, animated, and there’s the faintest hint of a smile on Carolina’s face as she indulges him.

The heavy feeling in Wash’s gut lessens a fraction, but not enough. There’s something _wrong,_ his instincts murmur, or maybe it’s his paranoia. He leans against the table and takes a deep breath, but it doesn’t do much to calm him. He has to _see_ that Epsilon is still here. He knows better than to trust empty reassurances. 

“There,” Carolina says. She taps the unit. “He should be back.”

Nothing, for a horrible moment. Then, after what seems like hours, there’s a soft _click,_ and a whirring sound starts up. Wash holds his breath.

A few seconds later, a blue light pops into view, flickering a few times before stabilizing. Epsilon’s hologram materializes in front of them.

“Church!” Caboose says happily. 

Wash finally breathes a sigh of relief, tension rushing out of him. His shoulders slump. It’s fine. Epsilon is still here. 

“Epsilon,” Carolina says, straightening. “Are you okay? What happened to you?”

Epsilon doesn’t respond. His sniper rifle disappears from his hands and he sighs, not quite looking at them. Wash frowns.

“I missed you,” Caboose continues. He steps forward and carefully cups a hand around Epsilon’s hologram. But Epsilon doesn’t even glance at him, his form trembling slightly as Caboose's fingers brush against the blue light. 

Wash and Carolina exchange glances. Carolina steps forward, impatient. “Epsilon—”

“Hey, guys,” Epsilon says, cutting him off. “If you're hearing this, then it means you did it.”

Carolina frowns and crosses her arms. “Church, can you—”

“You won,” Epsilon says. He’s still looking straight ahead, not turning towards either of them. “You kicked the shit out of Hargrove's forces. I knew you could. But this is my last stop.”

Wash blinks, but Epsilon doesn’t even slow down for a moment, not even when Caboose and Carolina continue to call his name. His voice is firm, resigned, but there’s something final to it.

“I can't run this suit as Epsilon. But if I erase my memories, if I…” Epsilon pauses, finally looking around, though his gaze doesn’t settle on any one place. “...deconstruct myself, the fragments I'll leave behind will have the strength to get you through this. I believe that.”

The realization dawns upon Wash slowly, crawling up his throat with the taste of bile. Beside him, Carolina is frozen, her shoulders rigid. 

“I'm leaving this message, as well as others, in the hopes that you'll understand why I have to go this time.”

Epsilon isn’t really here.

It’s a recording.

Wash can barely process his words, and there’s something sickening inside his chest, squeezing his heart and his lungs, making it hard to breathe. Caboose’s face falls as Epsilon speaks, his hand slowly moving away from his hologram, and Carolina’s expression is stuck in a sort of limbo between horror and fury. Tucker’s going to be so angry, so—

Fuck. Wash’s heart drops into a bottomless pit. _Tucker._

No. Not again. Not like this. Not after everything, there can’t be a repeat. There just can’t be. 

Fuck. It’s like Epsilon’s in his head again, trying to destroy the whole fucking world, and his voice may be calmer than last time but the horrific feeling is still the exact same. The resignation in his tone only makes Wash feel worse, shakier, a thousand times more panicky than going under the knife.

“...never know if their sacrifice actually made a difference,” Epsilon is saying. He begins to shift between different forms: Theta, Delta, Sigma—and it makes Wash want to throw up. “They'll never know if the day was really saved. In the end, they just have to have faith.”

Epsilon’s hologram glitches, his voice steady despite it. Resolute, like he’s made up his mind a long time ago. As if it’s his fucking decision to make—

“Ain’t that a bitch.”

The words seem to echo in Wash’s head, resounding. Epsilon flickers once, twice—then vanishes into thin air. 

The silence that follows is stifling.

“Church?” Caboose asks after a long moment, blinking in painful, innocent confusion. “Hey...Church? Where did you go?” 

Wash stares at the empty space, horrified.

No. 

_If I deconstruct myself—_

The operating room. The pain. Allison’s face. 

Tucker, screaming, shaking in Caboose’s arms—

No no no. His paranoid instincts aren’t supposed to be _right._ Not after everything they’ve gone through. 

Wash is up and stalking towards Carolina before his mind even catches up to his body. Carolina is still unmoving, gaze still pinned in that one spot. 

“Carolina,” Wash says, feeling his voice tremble. “Take it out.”

Carolina looks at him, her eyes glassed over, like she can’t process what quite happened.

 _“Carolina,”_ Wash demands, his voice cracking. Carolina snaps out of it, blinking, and finally obeys, her hands shaking as she gingerly removes the Epsilon unit from her armor. Wash inhales and tries to calm down and wants to _scream_ at how slow she is, even though he knows it’s from the shock, the only safeguard to the grief that’ll come later. 

Epsilon is _gone._ And Tucker—

“We have to go back to the med tent,” Wash manages to say, barely hearing himself over the ringing in his ears. 

“Why?” Caboose asks, frowning. “Is Church okay?”

Wash wants to snap at him, but a look from Carolina shuts him up. Her eyes are dark, almost cold now that the shock has worn off, and the dread that simmers on the surface is tangible in the air. 

“Caboose,” she says stiffly. “Stay here.” She shoves the Epsilon unit into his hands, which Caboose fumbles with for a second before catching.

“Tucker,” Wash manages to say. He stumbles towards the tent door. “He—”

Carolina pushes past him and heads out first. Wash finally gets his legs to work and breaks into a run.

His heart pounds so loudly it rings in his ears, and he can barely breathe, barely _think,_ which is fine, really, because there’s a thought in his mind he doesn’t want to entertain, an awful possibility of what really happened on the Staff of Charon—

He hears the screaming before he even sees the med tent in the distance. 

Wash’s lungs burn as his heart slams against his ribcage.

No. Not again. _Please_ not again—

It takes too long to get there. Carolina shoves past a poor soldier in the way and storms inside, Wash right behind her. Dr. Grey is standing near the entrance. She starts when she sees them, opening her mouth, but Carolina doesn’t let her get a word out. 

“You said he would be fine,” Carolina hisses, stalking forward. “How is this _fine?”_

Dr. Grey responds, but Wash can’t focus on her voice. He can only stare at Tucker, finally visible now that the curtains have been drawn aside. He’s thrashing and shouting, no longer wearing Maine’s armor but still struggling as he’s held down to no avail, nurses crowding around him and partially obscuring him from view.

Wash can’t make out what he’s screaming, and doesn’t know if he wants to. His knees feel weak. 

Suddenly it feels like he’s back on _Mother of Invention,_ in the operating room, orderlies looming over a shuddering figure in the hospital bed. He’s watching himself struggle and cry out from this detached, faraway view, like he’s only a bystander, and it feels unnatural, seeing himself from outside his body.

Except this is happening now, years later, and not to him. Epsilon is gone, and Tucker is the one shaking on the cot. One of his arms breaks free and knocks a tray down to the floor. The nurses around him are yelling, scrambling, unsure of what to do. The other patients in the tent are staring, stunned—no one else dares to approach. 

Wash has to fix this, somehow. But there’s a horrific feeling crawling up his throat, cold and nauseating. He can’t move, glued to the ground, his body refusing to cooperate, a voice in his head telling him to get _out,_ to remove himself from the situation, from any signs of Epsilon—

_Crash!_

The cot tips over, sending Tucker crashing against the floor. He immediately gets up, staggering away from the nurses—no longer screaming, but still muttering heatedly, delirious. 

“Wash,” Carolina says, barely audible. She grabs his wrist when he doesn’t turn to her. _“Wash.”_

Wash forces himself to look at her face. Her eyes are sharp, with barely contained anger that doesn’t do much to conceal the panic beneath it. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

“Wash,” she repeats, her voice cracking slightly. The rest of her message is written across her face. She sounds terrified, and Wash doesn’t feel any better.

Epsilon is in Tucker’s head, Wash realizes. He may be gone, but his memories are there, and it’s making him disoriented, confused, like there’s someone else in his mind. Someone foreign. 

Wash remembers the awful feeling. He has to help, but the pain is coming back, locking him in place as his heart spasms in his chest. 

There’s movement in his peripheral vision. Dr. Grey is stepping forward towards Tucker, a hand outstretched. “Captain Tucker.” Her tone is a barely-controlled calm. “Can you hear me?”

Tucker doesn’t respond, hands still curled over his head. She moves a little closer, and his head immediately snaps up, jerking away from her hand. 

_“Get away from me,”_ Tucker spits out. He stumbles towards Wash, swaying, looking around widely—

Until his gaze locks onto Wash, and he visibly flinches, slowing into a stop. His expression is still twisted in pain, his eyes clouded, but there’s a tiny reprieve of recognition in his stare. 

“Epsilon,” Tucker gasps, his voice rasping, hoarse from the shouting. “Church, don’t—don’t—”

A bit of hope ignites in Wash’s chest. _Church._ It’s something only Tucker would call Epsilon. Wash dares to take a step forward, his throat constricting.

Tucker blinks at him, confusion in his gaze, like he’s realizing that something’s wrong. “Church?”

Wash swallows. Opens his mouth, and carefully forces the syllables out of his lips. “Tucker—”

Tucker screams immediately, shying away from him. Wash backs off, but Tucker is shaking so violently he nearly falls over. _Shit._

Wash doesn’t know what to do. Impulsively, he lurches forward again, in case Tucker falls, in case he hurts himself—

Tucker cowers, hands rising up to shield himself. _“No! ALLISON!”_

Her name almost echoes. Wash gasps and physically stumbles back, the nape of his neck flaring up with phantom pain. His ears ring, deafening, the world spinning and closing in on him. 

Wash has not had Epsilon in his head for a long, long time. But the memories are still in there, somewhere, and hearing her name, even after all these years, makes him want to pass out. 

He squeezes his eyes shut. It feels like he’s underwater, everything muted. There’s a hand on his shoulder, a voice saying his name, but his chest feels too tight, the air isn’t reaching his lungs. It feels like he’s drowning. 

Don’t think of her face. Don’t dredge up any more of those memories, and don’t fucking _think_ about what Epsilon has done this time. He can’t panic, not when he’s the only one who knows what’s going on, cleaning up Epsilon’s mess a second time. But the thought of it makes his implants sting with pain, and he wants nothing more than to hide from the world. 

He was _right._ Epsilon hurt Tucker the same way he hurt Wash, years ago, and there’s no undoing it. Tucker is feeling the same pain that Wash felt, the horrible sensation of your mind being ripped to pieces, someone else inside your head, clawing at the walls and begging to be let out—

It takes him a while to realize that the screaming has stopped, replaced by an oppressive silence that is only broken by Carolina murmuring his name. Wash swallows shakily, finally moving, and he feels her hand fall away. 

He opens his eyes and looks up. The nurses have Tucker sedated, now, enough to completely still his movements. He lies limp and silent as they carry him back to the cot, the tension in the air thick enough to be cut through with a knife.

For a moment, no one speaks. Everyone stares, terrified, and Wash is all too aware of the eyes on him and Tucker, the fear and confusion. It’s horribly familiar, yet alien—worlds away from Project Freelancer, but the pain is still the same, even with an audience this time. 

“What the fuck was that?” Grif asks, shattering the silence. Wash turns, and finds him and Simmons staring, horror written on their faces. 

Wash doesn’t know where to even begin. He looks back at Tucker, who looks ashen, so still he almost appears dead. 

Epsilon did this. Epsilon is gone again, and...nothing has changed. It’s just like the first time. Epsilon’s memories have had time to decay, to fade into the depths of Wash’s mind, undisturbed. But they’d never be truly gone. 

Wash closes his eyes. His breath seems to rattle in his ribcage, brittle, and his skin feels too tight, his heart stopped like the ground’s given way beneath him.

Slowly, tentatively, the medical tent begins to move again. Dr. Grey approaches Tucker’s cot, a few people leave, and the other patients start talking again, although in hushed voices. Carolina’s hand finds Wash’s, and the two of them stay where they are, frozen amidst the hesitant movement. 

Carolina is breathing raggedly, squeezing his hand so tightly his fingers are turning white, but he doesn’t notice. He can’t tear his gaze away from Tucker, and, if time allowed it, he would’ve stood there staring forever, like it could change something, save someone, like he could turn back time and scream at Church for doing something so fucking horrible—

All the while, Epsilon’s words echo in his head, haunting, rising with memories Wash has tried to forget for so long:

_I wish that there was another way._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tumblr: @daydreamno019


	2. how to sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tucker doesn't wake up. Wash waits, and waits, and waits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! this is like...lowkey....a filler chapter......i split up original chapter 2 into two updates because i wanted to post something by the end of march, since i have more time in self-quarantine. theres probably gonna be about 5 chapters in total, now. 
> 
> hopefully chapter 3 will be out by the end of april, and maybe we'll even get another look at rvb18 by then :0

When they head back to the base, Tucker is sent straight to the hospital. Wash doesn’t see him for five days.

During that time, he’s restless. He explains to Dr. Grey what he knows, about Epsilon, about what happened to Tucker. He chooses his words carefully but she seems to get the gist of it, eyes sympathetic, and promises to give him updates as frequently as possible. 

(“I’m sorry,” Dr. Grey said before he left, her voice tight with genuine regret. “I didn’t realize how serious it was.”

“It’s fine,” Wash responded, resentment stirring in his chest, though not directed at her. “You never dealt with this before. And Epsilon is a special case.”)

But maybe it’s better that Wash doesn’t hear the screaming, the cries of Allison’s name. Maybe it’s better that he doesn’t see the room, lit with harsh white light, the straps that hold down Tucker’s arms so that he doesn’t hurt himself, so that they can sedate him. They don’t mean harm to him, Wash knows, but just thinking about it makes his heart shudder in his chest.

The waiting is almost worse than the outburst in the med tent. Wash has nothing to do, really. He checks up on a few of the Feds who were injured from the fight but recovering, carefully avoiding their questions about Tucker. Carolina is practically nowhere to be found, and Wash would think she was actually M.I.A. if not for the few times he spots her in the training room, destroying punching bags in stubborn silence. 

The finality of what happened settles slowly, creeping over Wash as he paces in his room, hands fidgeting anxiously. He stares at the ground and replays Epsilon’s message in his head, over and over again. It’s almost like Epsilon’s still in his brain, words inscribed in the back of his mind. It makes him want to vomit.

The thing is...Wash doesn’t _understand._ How could Epsilon let this happen a second time? He was supposed to be healed, cracks smoothed over, jagged pieces fitted back into place while Wash struggled to fill his own empty spaces. It wasn’t supposed to end like how it began.

Logically, Wash knows Epsilon didn’t do this on purpose. He wouldn’t have shattered himself if he had known the consequences, if he had known that the memories would force themselves into Tucker’s head, foreign voices crowding every inch of space with no way to rip them out, with no way to stop the pain even as he screams and screams and screams—

But, _logically,_ it doesn’t matter. Epsilon did it anyway, like he didn’t learn his lesson from the first time around, and Tucker is lying on the hospital bed and he’ll never be the same. How can he be, after having another person in his head, memories unraveling and mixing with his own? 

Wash doesn’t know how he feels. There’s a sinking dread in his stomach that makes it hard to breathe. The numbness of shock is still fading away, and beneath it is just...exhaustion. Angers simmers in his chest, but it’s barely enough to fill the emptiness. It just pulses in the corner of his mind, flashes in the back of his eyelids—fleeting bitterness that solidifies slowly, crawling at a snail-like pace.

Maybe it’s because Wash is trying to shut down. He did it back in Project Freelancer, after the Epsilon incident ( _a possible, but rare, unfortunate outcome,_ the Counselor had described it as), when they questioned him constantly, trying to see the damage Epsilon had done. Wash had to learn to avoid suspicion, to keep things to himself. They couldn’t figure out his emotions if he didn’t have any, after all. 

It worked, but perhaps it worsened the damage, distanced Wash further from the world. It took meeting the Reds and Blues to slowly unlearn how to hide himself. He can’t say if he’s glad or upset about it, in this present moment. 

But what he’s feeling doesn’t matter, because Epsilon is gone, leaving behind a single message, not even alluding to what happened to Tucker. Perhaps he thought it would be different this time, because he made a lucid, clear-headed choice, not borne of a desperate _need_ to escape the pain. Because he had changed, no longer just a traumatized fragment of the Alpha, but _Church._ With friends and a purpose and an identity of his own.

But he was still made of the same memories, a ticking time bomb. And now he’s gone for real, the last of him living on only in fragments—scars in Wash’s mind and shrapnel in Tucker’s. 

Wash has gotten through the years fine, pushing those thoughts to the very back of his mind, separating himself from Epsilon’s panic and fear as he adjusted to the overwhelming pain. But this just brings it all back to the surface again, haunting, his implants staticky and aching. And it’s going to be way worse for Tucker, when he wakes up.

At least he won’t be alone. That’s the only relief, among everything that’s happened. 

The rest is the furthest thing from easy. Wash has to tell the Reds and Blues what happened, and he does, after incessant questions about what the _fuck_ happened back in the med tent—Epsilon is dead, he’s not coming back, he shattered and released all of his memories into Tucker’s head, fragmented, painful, and Tucker’s never going to be the same. Wash plays the recording, too, even though his heart nearly rips a hole through his chest when he hears Epsilon’s words again.

He tries to keep his voice level as he explains, keeping an eye on Caboose, whose expression becomes more and more confused as he talks, but there’s a bitter taste in Wash’s mouth, a hollow feeling in his chest. All the while Carolina sits next to him, eyes red-rimmed, and everyone knows better than to mention it.

“Didn’t this happen to you?” Simmons asks after a long, stunned silence. “During Project Freelancer. Didn’t Chur—Epsilon try to—”

“Yes,” Wash interrupts. “But he didn’t succeed. This time he did. And now he’s gone.” He glances at Caboose again, who still looks hopelessly lost. He’s clutching the Epsilon unit in his hands, holding it protectively to his chest—Wash doesn’t even know where he got it from, considering they handed it back to Dr. Grey for inspection. 

“So Tucker won’t remember us?” Donut asks, his voice trembling, like he’s about to cry. 

“He will,” Wash says, but he can’t muster much conviction in his tone. “He still has his own memories, it’s just—mixed with Epsilon’s. It’s difficult to distinguish them. It’ll take some time.”

Years, of being questioned incessantly by the Director and the Counselor, as they try to prod around in his brain to see if he’s discovered their secrets. Years, of being alone as the others leave Project Freelancer or die for it, as he drifts away and gets lost in his own head, learning to trust no one. Wash had woken up from the ordeal haunted by ghosts that weren’t his, memories of an entirely different life. Even years later, under other circumstances, Tucker may wake up the same.

Anger stretches taut in his chest, ready to snap. Epsilon should’ve fucking known. 

“Shit,” Grif mutters. “That’s fucked up. Tucker…”

He trails off. Wash has never quite understood the inter-team relationship of the Reds and Blues, but Grif does look unsettled, pressing against Simmons’ side as his gaze looks everywhere but Wash. Simmons appears equally shaken.

“It’s never easy to lose your men,” Sarge speaks up, even his voice subdued. “Even for dirty Blues.”

It’s the closest thing to condolences Wash has ever heard from him. He swallows and tries to offer a grateful smile, but even the slightest quirk of his lips feels impossible. 

He looks around. Carolina still hasn’t said a word, Donut is quietly sniffling, and Caboose...is staring out the window, holding the Epsilon unit and tracing absent-minded circles on the surface with his thumb. Wash can’t read the expression on his face. 

Fuck. He just has to bite the bullet. He takes a deep, shaky breath. “Caboose?”

Caboose starts, like he wasn’t paying attention. He turns his head towards him. “Yes?”

“Do you…” Wash swallows, feeling everyone stare at him, none of them with envy. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Caboose blinks. “About Church?”

“Yeah.”

Caboose doesn’t respond. He has a bewildered look on his face, and Wash sees him grip the Epsilon unit tighter. “Church...is gone?”

Wash nods. Caboose’s brow furrows.

“But he will come back,” Caboose says slowly. Wash’s heart sinks. “Like last time. And before that, too.”

Wash squeezes his eyes shut and exhales. Chooses his words carefully. “No, Caboose. Gone forever. I know he’s ‘died’ before but this time is final. He’s not coming back.” 

Caboose blinks. Then, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world, he shakes his head. “I do not think you are right, Agent Washington. Church would never leave us.”

Wash feels something crack inside him, red-hot anger and stone-cold dread. “He did more than leave us, Caboose. He hurt Tucker. Badly. You saw him.”

“The screaming?” Caboose asks. Wash nods again. “That was…” Caboose’s voice is shakier, now, and Wash feels guilt stab him in the chest. “That was not Church. That was a mean thing pretending to be—”

“Caboose.”

Wash turns around. Carolina isn’t looking up, eyes still fixed on the floor without indication that she’s uttered her first word in the past two hours. Her hands are curled into fists at her sides, and she’s tense, like she’s ready to leap to her feet and fight at any second. A defense mechanism perfectly primed for this moment. 

“Epsilon is dead,” she says, enunciating her words carefully, but her voice shakes ever so slightly. “He’s never coming back. He was made of memories, and those memories are gone. Forever.”

“But…” Caboose frowns. “Washington said they are inside Tucker.” 

“It’s not the same,” Carolina says, empty. She finally looks up, glancing at Wash. “That’s not Church. Not the Church you know—knew.” She draws in a deep breath. “Church is dead like General Doyle is. He sacrificed himself.”

Caboose flinches, clutching the Epsilon unit. Wash glances around and realizes that the Reds have quietly left, perhaps to give them privacy. It just makes the quiet feel more oppressive as Caboose struggles to find his words, the silence dragging on and on. Wash closes his eyes, shuddering, and thinks about Tucker, lying on a hospital bed with a mind that isn’t just his anymore.

“B-but,” Caboose says finally, barely audible. Wash looks to see Caboose bowing his head, sniffling as he looks at the ground. “He didn’t say goodbye…”

Carolina laughs mirthlessly, the sound broken, and shakes her head. “He never does, Caboose. He’s just...gone.”

“Oh.” The single syllable is quiet, but the hurt in it makes Wash’s heart wrench in his chest. “A-and Tucker?”

Carolina doesn’t respond. Wash realizes with a start that she’s looking at him. Expecting him to say something.

“He…” Wash trails off, trying to find the right words. “He’ll wake up, Caboose. But I don’t know...how okay he’ll be.”

“Because of Church?”

“Because of Church.”

Caboose looks down at the Epsilon unit in his hands, his grip loosening slightly. He doesn’t say anything in response, and Wash can’t think of any other words to say except empty condolences. The silence looms heavy over them, dampening anything that comes to his throat, chilling the warmth he tries to feel when he presses against Carolina’s side on their way out of the room.

Wash doesn’t see Caboose for the rest of the day, not even at the mess hall. That exhausted feeling stays, when Wash goes to sleep (tries to, fails) that night, and for the days that follow. All the while, the quiet wraps around them like a shroud. 

The wait doesn’t become easier with the explanation. In fact, Wash feels worse, weighed down, dread taut in his chest. His mind wanders, despite himself. To the Epsilon back in Project Freelancer, to his last words aboard the Staff of Charon. 

There was no indication that Epsilon was going to just shatter, over the radio. He told him and Carolina to stay alive. He called for an extraction, and Wash didn’t get on the Pelican—thought he’d be better suited staying on the ground, with the rest of the Feds and News. He couldn’t have known. But it doesn’t matter. 

Wash sporadically sees Caboose talking to his lieutenant and Donut, throughout the next few days, which is...good. Better than Wash’s constant brooding and thinking, and Carolina’s insistence on spending all her time in the training room.He tries to approach her, once, but she just ignores his requests, eyes fixated on the punching bag or training dummy, telling him off in a voice that thinly hides pain under a weak layer of anger. He doesn’t push her. 

He spends the next four days in a daze, numbness fighting with the bitterness inside his chest as they wait and wait and wait. He asks Dr. Grey for updates, which she gives rather vaguely, though she constantly assures him that Tucker is fine. Physically, at least. Mentally, they won’t know until he wakes up.

Wash already has an inkling. Of course he does.

He spends so long waiting, apprehensive, that when Dr. Grey sends the message that they can see Tucker, he immediately drops what he’s doing (which wasn’t much to begin with, anyway) and heads to the hospital, his heart pumping in his chest. Anticipation and dread pull tight in his gut, but the latter wins, and his mind is already running through worst-case scenarios—that’s what seems to be coming to them, nowadays. 

He gets there at the same time as Caboose. Carolina, unexpectedly, is already standing in front of the hospital room with Dr. Grey, though the surprise he feels quickly gives way to guilt. Of course she’s here for her friend. Carolina won’t meet his gaze, though, eyes stubbornly fixated on the doorknob. 

“We’ve gotten Captain Tucker’s condition to stabilize,” Dr. Grey says, and Wash strains for a sign of worry in her voice, but there’s nothing urgent. “You can come in.” She steps back to let them through the door. Caboose goes in first, then Wash follows, with Carolina close behind.

Tucker is lying there on the hospital bed, out of the Meta's armor, and he’s so still at first that Wash freezes in the doorway, Carolina bumping into him from behind. He only pauses for a split second before forcing his legs to move, getting closer, and only then does he see the steady rise and fall of Tucker’s chest. He lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, avoiding Dr. Grey’s concerned glance at him. 

“He’s under some sedatives, just enough to calm him down,” Dr. Grey says. Wash tries not to flinch, but she seems to notice, and she quickly brushes past the topic. “He’ll be slipping in and out of consciousness for a few days after he first wakes up.”

Wash swallows, watching Tucker’s face. He looks more gaunt, smaller without his usual energy as he lies motionlessly on the hospital bed. There are bandages around the back of his neck. His expression is peaceful, but so still that it doesn’t seem natural. Wash knows it won’t last. Not when the memories are there inside his mind. 

“Tucker?” Caboose says softly. He sits down in the chair next to the bed, taking one of his hands. “Are you...are you okay?”

They let the silence linger for a few moments, as Caboose’s shoulders sag and he clutches the Epsilon unit tighter in his other hand. 

“I’ll give you some privacy.” Dr. Grey touches Caboose’s shoulder lightly and steps towards the door. “Tell me when he wakes up, but don’t stay here too long. You all need rest as well.”

Wash takes a deep breath and tears his eyes away from Tucker to meet her gaze. Dr. Grey looks exhausted, though she does well to hide it. She offers him a smile, and he tries to return it as genuinely as he can.

“Thank you,” he says softly. “Really, Emily, I—”

“It’s what I do,” she says. She squeezes his shoulder on the way out, gently closing the door behind her and leaving the three of them in the room with Tucker.

Wash glances at Carolina. She still hasn’t said anything, staring at Tucker with a pained look in her eyes. Wash lays a gentle hand on her shoulder. She doesn’t shrug him off like he expects her to, but she doesn’t react at all, eyes glued on the hospital bed.

“Tucker,” Caboose says, his voice wobbling. “You cannot be sleeping. Church is already…” He makes a pained noise, shaking his head slightly. “I do not want to be the only one awake.”

Wash inhales, feeling his heart squeeze in his chest. He may be a Blue (or at least, Caboose and the others seem to think of him as so), but he wasn’t from the beginning. Caboose, Tucker, and Church have been a team for years, before Wash even met them. Caboose has already lost one of them, and the other…

Wash takes another chair and brings it over next to Caboose, sitting down. Carolina finally moves and does the same, taking a seat on Tucker’s other side. 

Wash doesn’t know what to say, if there’s anything even worth saying—Tucker can’t hear him. So Caboose is the one who begins to fill the uneasy silence.

“Tucker,” he says again. “We won. Principal Kimball said so. That’s...that’s good, right? We won and the bald man is in jail and we saved the planet. Church…” Caboose goes quiet for a moment. “Church said we would.”

Carolina makes a noise, half-way between a laugh and...not quite a sob, but it draws out of her throat in a way that reminds him of one. It’s so sudden and quiet that Wash almost thinks he imagined it, if not for how Caboose flinches slightly at the sound.

The silence lingers for a few seconds, until Caboose, unsteadily but with a determination that Wash can’t quite muster, continues talking, detailing the events that followed the Staff of Charon. Wash closes his eyes, trying to even his breathing.

The victory just makes him feel hollow, like it doesn’t mean anything—which just serves to elevate the guilt inside him. The people of Chorus fought for _years_ to end this war. Church gave his life to help these people, too, and Wash should feel...something. He doesn’t know. Not _this,_ the hollow sense of loss that numbs his bones, the bitterness that rises in his throat as he thinks about Epsilon’s last words.

Wash doesn’t know how long they stay there. Somehow Caboose doesn’t run out of things to talk about, though Wash notices how obviously he avoids mentioning Church again, maybe because of Carolina’s reaction, maybe because of his own grief. Throughout all of this, Tucker doesn’t stir. Wash doesn’t know if that’s better or worse.

Carolina leaves first, murmuring something about a message from Kimball. She slowly gets to her feet, swaying, and gives Tucker one last look of...Wash can’t call it sorrow. There’s a pained expression on her face, but also a residual resentment, though he doesn’t know at who. Then she leaves, quickly, and her footsteps fade into the background as Caboose keeps on talking.

Wash sighs, staring at Tucker’s face. Maybe he can almost imagine that he’s just sleeping, peaceful, and he’ll wake up tomorrow morning and be his normal self, with his mind intact. They can weather the grief of losing Church together, the loss that swirls around them like a fog, and the anger would mellow out. But it’s not that simple. Church is gone, but still half-there in Tucker’s mind, remnants that take the pain and sorrow and make them tenfold. 

When Tucker wakes up, Church won’t be really gone, at least not in his head. And those constant, haunting reminders might be worse.

Anger flares in Wash’s chest, but it hurts, like gasping for air with stitches in your side. Wash takes a deep breath and glances at Caboose. He looks exhausted, his voice dipping audibly as he speaks. He doesn’t take his eyes off Tucker’s face, one hand still on his while the other squeezes the Epsilon unit.

Wash exhales. “We should go, too, Caboose.”

No response. Caboose keeps talking, about something Lieutenant Andersmith told him.

“Caboose.”

Caboose’s hands tremble visibly. Wash feels his heart spasm in his chest. He reaches over to gently clutch Caboose’s wrist, where his hand is resting on top of Tucker’s.

“Caboose,” he repeats softly. “We can come back tomorrow.”

Finally Caboose turns to look at him. His eyes are shining with tears, and he pulls out of Wash’s grasp to wipe at them.

“Agent Washington,” Caboose mumbles, lowering his hand from his face. Wash swallows.

“Yeah?”

Caboose’s other hand, the one clutching the Epsilon unit, drifts to his chest. “T-Tucker will be sad. When he wakes up. Church…” He’s trembling, his voice growing quieter as he speaks. “Church was his best friend, too.”

The bitterness that sparks in Wash’s chest is barely there, like a dying flame. “I know.”

Caboose turns to look at him, sniffling, and the question he asks is barely audible even in the quiet room. “This...happened to you before, right?”

Wash inhales, surprised. A sudden ache pulses in his chest, and he tries his best to push it away.

Caboose never knew that Epsilon, a tortured and grieving fragment who tried to break Wash’s mind. But meeting Caboose’s gaze, Wash knows he’s beginning to understand, slot the pieces together as those memories of the past Epsilon dwell in Tucker’s head. 

Wash slowly gathers himself, trying to keep his voice level as he responds, “Yes. It did.”

“So you know if…” Caboose looks at the ground, and Wash sees his hand curl slightly around the Epsilon unit. “If Tucker will be okay?”

Wash can’t sugarcoat it even if he wanted to. He sighs, placing a hand lightly on Caboose’s shoulder. “Not for a while, Caboose.” Something comes loose in his chest as the words leave his mouth. “I’m sorry.” 

Caboose doesn’t respond, eyes cast downward as he sits quietly, his shoulders curled, hands pressed to his chest. Slowly, he pushes back in the chair, rising to his feet. Wash doesn’t have the heart to rush him as he turns to look at Tucker again.

“Bye, Tucker,” Caboose says, quiet. “See you.” 

Then he looks back at Wash, a silent agreement to leave, and Wash unsteadily gets up as well. They head to the door quietly. 

As he pulls it open to let Caboose through first, he glances back at Tucker, still as motionless as he has been the whole time. He wonders if he should say something to Tucker, even if he can’t hear him—maybe just to reassure himself. But even the most meaningless words get stuck in his throat, and he silently follows Caboose out of the room, letting the door fall shut behind them.

The image of Tucker’s still form lingers as he leaves, though, along with the sound of his voice, crying out Allison’s name with a wretchedness that echoes in the depths of his mind. Wash can’t get it out of his head, and there’s the anxiety inside him that dreads when Tucker will wake up and realize what’s happened to him, how he’ll feel when he finds out that his mind is no longer just his own. Terrified, disoriented, shuddering with a pain that pierces through all parts of him—

But not alone. He won’t wake up alone; Wash refuses to let that happen. The memories of when he first woke, alone in recovery save for orderlies whose faces he couldn’t see behind their visors, still seeing flashes of Allison’s face behind his eyelids—the panic struck him and made it hard to breathe, between the ragged gasps and cries for help, and he remembers how they loomed over him, syringes in hand, putting him under before he could even say a coherent word.

Not alone. So Wash spends more time with Tucker than even Caboose does, though he suspects that’s because Caboose is replaying Epsilon’s message alone in his quarters, which is...unhealthy, but Wash doesn’t know quite how to bring it up. He’d be a hypocrite, anyway, as he sits next to Tucker’s hospital bed every waking hour, even falling asleep at his side sometimes. There’s an ache in his chest that makes him feel heavy, but he still takes Tucker’s hand and sits in the plastic chair and lets his mind wander farther than he’s ever let it. 

Caboose is usually there with him. Occasionally it’s one of Tucker’s lieutenants, Palomo, who always talks Wash’s ears off, which is—annoying, but at least a distraction. Even Grif and Donut pop in a few times, though Grif looks immensely awkward about being there with Wash.

Carolina hasn’t stopped by since the first time Dr. Grey told them to come in. She’s still in the training room every day, according to Caboose, and no one is really able to talk to her. Wash tries, once, when he makes sure Caboose is in the hospital room with Tucker, but he gets the same reaction as before, anger and pain. 

Wash feels it so acutely it hurts. Part of him wishes he could throw himself into something like she’s doing, at least taking his mind off this instead of sitting passively and brooding in his thoughts. But she never experienced this like he did, never had the memories dig into her mind all at once. He feels exhausted, by the resentment that lodges inside him, the growing urge to blame Epsilon and the guilt that follows. He’s too tired to do something with the pain and anger, so he just...waits, and dreads what’s to come.

Sometimes Tucker talks in his sleep—not quite awake, not quite coherent, and Wash can only pick a few words. Distressed murmurs of goodbyes and her name (which still feel like a sting when he hears them) as a plea, calling out to Tex with a fear so palpable that it makes Wash’s heart seize in his chest. Occasionally he catches whispers of their names, even Tucker’s own. Wash tries not to think about what that means, hearing him mutter his own name as if it were someone else’s.

His movements are minimal, small shifts on the bed, the furrow of his brows and mouthing of his lips. Sometimes his fingers curl and his eyelids flutter, but all of it only lasts a few seconds before receding back into stillness. He always seems agitated, trapped, like he’s fighting something inside him before he wakes up and becomes himself again. 

Wash tries to talk to him a little, when it’s just the two of them, but he always wavers after the first few minutes, the quiet oppressive enough to silence whatever insufficient words he can think of. Hollow reassurances mean nothing. Wash knows, yet the truth stings, the reality of the situation— _you will never be the same. The memories will never disappear._

So Wash can do nothing except sit next to Tucker and squeeze his hand and think. He wonders how North felt, in the med bay of _Mother of Invention,_ waiting for him to wake up. The Project had already been crumbling by then, and North had just lost Theta—taken back by the Counselor, after Epsilon shattered (the first time) and they decided all the A.I. had to be recalled. 

Wash doesn’t remember feeling the warmth of North’s hand while he was unconscious, doesn’t remember hearing his voice. Only waking up, his body immediately tensing and expecting unknown faces and locations again—and then the relief in his bones when he saw North’s familiar face, finally, then even South standing a few feet behind her brother. 

Short-lived relief, as the alarms began to blare, and North and South quickly left. As the memories stayed stubbornly in the forefront of Wash’s mind, and Project Freelancer unraveled further along its seams. As his teammates began to die at the hands of the one he was closest with. Wash distanced himself, shut down and tried to block out every emotion that simmered within him.

Becoming a recovery agent and seeing his friends’ dead bodies, handling them with a detached, mechanical procedure exactly as Command said, did...something. Wash wouldn’t say _helped,_ especially when it came to the Counselor’s constant interrogations. It changed him, on top of what Epsilon already did to his head.

But there is no Counselor, now. There’s Dr. Grey. She comes in to check up on Tucker sometimes, and Wash sees her face get more and more concerned every time she sees him there, like she wants to ask him questions, but doesn’t, at least not at first. She gives him space even as they talk, and Wash asks for a few updates on some of the Feds whose names he knows. They lost some others, in that final battle with the Mantises and Hargrove’s forces. The people of Chorus have their own people to grieve, and Wash feels guilt that he’ll never know who some of them were. They lost more than Wash and the Reds and Blues did on this planet, and yet...

“Wash,” she says on her fifth visit while Wash is there, after checking on Tucker’s vitals. Wash doesn’t have to turn to her to know that there’s concern in her gaze—not pity, because she’s rather good at separating the two. “It’s late.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” Dr. Grey says, in a tone that indicates she won’t be dropping it so easily, this time.

Wash exhales, shifting in his seat. His leg has fallen asleep, though he can’t say the same about himself. He can’t remember the last time he slept more than a few hours, in an actual bed instead of slumped against the chair. 

Dr. Grey sits next to him in the vacant seat besides him. He keeps his eyes on Tucker’s still face and braces himself for what she has to say.

“I’m here if you need to talk to me.” Her voice is gentle but firm. Wash sucks in a shaky breath, collecting his thoughts. 

“Thank you,” he manages to say, turning slightly towards her and trying to offer a smile, “but I don’t—”

Dr. Grey gives him a look. The rest of the words die in his throat, and he turns back to Tucker, trying to suppress the shudder that runs through his body.

“Wash,” she says after a moment. “I know you’re worried. You know more about this situation with Captain Tucker than I do, but as a doctor, I know that you need to sleep. You need to take care of yourself.”

“I am,” Wash responds, almost automatically. “I...I will. I just need to be here. In case he wakes up.” 

Silence. Wash feels Dr. Grey’s gaze on him. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine,” Wash says. Then he hesitates, shoulders sagging. “I’m...managing. After that battle…” 

He trails off. Resentment surges up in his chest again, weakened by exhaustion but still there. Epsilon did this. He saved them, but he hurt Tucker, in a way that resonates in Wash’s skull. There’s nothing they can do to fix that. To bring back Epsilon and return those memories to where they came from.

“Wash?” Dr. Grey asks. Wash blinks, glancing at her. Her eyes are soft, but...

_Were you thinking about Epsilon again, Agent Washington?_

Wash swallows and pushes the Counselor’s voice out of his head. “I-it’s just a lot. Brings back some unwanted memories. I’ve just been thinking about it. I’ll be fine.”

But Tucker won’t be, when he wakes up. Wash’s heart constricts in his chest, staring at his unmoving face. Epsilon is gone, the final time, and Tucker has his memories. Wash should’ve been on that Pelican, heading up to the Staff of Charon, urging the pilot to go faster and get there before Epsilon could shatter. He should’ve gone with them onto Hargrove’s ship in the first place. Anything to prevent Epsilon from shattering _again—_

There’s a hand on top of his, and Wash starts. Dr. Grey looks at him, steady. She looks exhausted, probably from looking after the dozen other injuries that happened at that battle, but her gaze is firm, her grip gentle on his wrist.

“Wash,” Dr. Grey says softly. “This was Epsilon’s decision. You couldn’t have changed his mind.” 

_What happened with Epsilon was not your fault, Agent Washington._

Wash grits his teeth. No, it wasn’t. But maybe this time he could’ve talked some fucking _sense_ into that A.I. brain of his, told him to think about the outcomes more clearly before letting it all fall apart. Told him to think about how he’s changed, since trying to kill himself in Wash’s brain, and think about the people who _care._

But he doesn’t have the energy to say any of that, to push it further. There’s no use thinking about it now.

“I know,” he chooses to say. He sighs, the numbness curling in his gut, and closes his eyes briefly. “H-have you seen Carolina?”

Dr. Grey exhales, but doesn’t point out the subject change, slowly responding, “I’ve sought her out a few times. She’s...not coping well. She won’t talk to me, or anyone, from the looks of it.”

Wash swallows, feeling an immense surge of guilt. Carolina’s been grieving, too, and she’s been doing it alone. He hasn’t checked up on her in quite a while. “She lost her brother.”

Dr. Grey nods, squeezing Wash’s hand gently before letting go. “I know. That’s why I’m worried. Have you tried—”

“Yeah. She didn’t want to talk to me, either.”

A brief pause. “And you?”

Wash blinks, turning to her. “What do you mean?”

Dr. Grey’s gaze is steadfast, pinning him carefully. “You need to talk to me, too, Wash. _Really_ talk about what you’ve been feeling. I’ve already had a few sessions with Caboose—”

“No,” Wash blurts out, then scrambles to find the right words. “N-no, I...thank you, Emily, but…” His stomach immediately lurches at the thought. “I...I don’t need to. Really.” 

He’s fine. It’s Tucker who’ll need to talk to her. It’s Tucker who lost his friend. 

Dr. Grey doesn’t look convinced, but she only watches him a few more moments before sighing. Slowly, she gets up, gaze moving to Tucker on the hospital bed. 

“I have to check up on Matthews,” she says. “But...don’t just ignore me, Wash. I don’t want to have to limit your visiting hours.”

Wash swallows. “You won’t have to.” 

She’s quiet, for a moment, then Wash feels a hand squeeze his shoulder briefly. “Alright. Get some rest. Take care of yourself as well.”

He doesn’t turn around to watch her go, hearing the door softly open and close behind him. He takes a deep breath as silence settles over the room.

He can’t leave Tucker alone. The thought makes him shudder. It’s already late, like Dr. Grey said, so no one else is coming, and Wash can’t return to his quarters, despite the fatigue that weighs him down. He needs to stay here.

Tomorrow. Maybe Wash can rest tomorrow, when Caboose comes by. 

For now, he watches Tucker’s chest rise and fall steadily, with an outward calm that would have Wash fooled if he didn’t _know,_ thoughts unraveling inside his head, crashing like waves.

Tucker will wake up soon, and have to face the aftermath. The loss of a friend intensified by the memories of him. 

Wash can’t get rid of the dread that lodges in his chest, at that.


	3. falling in reverse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a mind half-melded into his and voices that crackle like static every time he breathes. It hurts.
> 
> If only Church were alive. And tangible. Because Tucker really _really_ wants to punch him in the face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahh im so sorry for the long wait! april went by really fast and i had exams in may. hopefully ch4 will take less time to finish but i did change something significant in the plot so i have to delete/rewrite a bunch of scenes ;-;
> 
> hopefully we'll get some more rvb18 news soon...

Consciousness comes back to him slowly, in fragments. 

_...if you’re hearing this, then it means— _

The first thing he’s aware of is a soft hum, faraway but steadily growing louder until it becomes voices, overlapping murmurs that slip in and out of clarity so frequently that he can barely pick out any words. Maybe if he reaches out, he can hear them better, gather the scattered pieces and—

No. No, he can’t. They’re not his...

_ There’s something—need to— _

The harsh chafe against his wrists, a gentle hand on his cheek and an earnest gaze upon him that begs him not to say goodbye as he struggles against the restraints. It hurts. It numbs. There’s warmth on his face and then coldness beneath him, sinking into water so freezing that it cuts his skin like shattered glass, a sharp sting in the back of his neck that burns away the ends of his nerves.

_ —need to tell you—think it’s important— _

It’s his own voice. It’s not. It’s someone else’s who is also him, who is  _ there _ in the crevices of this space. He doesn’t want it in here. He doesn’t want to be here. 

Get out.

_ You don’t...you don’t know—? _

Get out. There are shouts of alarm and too many people around him, too much space and emptiness. He needs to get out of here. 

_ I need you to rest now, T— _

The voices plunge into silence so quickly it reels him in, into the muted underwater hum that’s so hollow it pushes on him from all sides, like a tomb. The world begins to swirl around him, harsh white lights and gray metal floors, but there’s a flicker, a face, intense blue eyes that soften and become green, innocent and full of tears he has no time to deal with, he has to do something, do  _ everything  _ to bring back—

A name, a name bleeds from his mind, and comes to the forefront so strongly that it leaves him reeling—

_ ALLISON. _

There’s a broken helmet in the trophy room, painted black, the hole in its visor surrounded by webbed cracks. The anger wells up in him as he stares at it, and the feeling lodges inside of him, persistent, even as his friends grab weapons off the displays and gear up for battle.

The words get stuck in his throat, building up and spilling over the edge, as white armor turns a familiar shade of aqua.  _ I hate you all the least—if you’re hearing this— _

_ You won— _

It doesn’t feel right, what he’s saying. What he’s hearing. Memories drift around loosely, broken fragments of a shipwreck, wood and metal and gunpowder. Once together, now torn apart, sinking as echoes of sound and sight, forming halves of wholes and blurry recollections. 

There, in the faint reflection of the cracked visor, her face. Blue eyes intense, a smile curling at her lips, exasperated at the edges but soft, her voice flowing over him with steady and empty reassurances as she steps back. He reaches out and knows nothing but the need to keep her here. He reaches out and feels the pain at the nape of his neck, in the depths of his chest, like mind and soul are being torn out of him. It hurts. It  _ hurts. _

He doesn’t want to let go of her, his world, Allison. He doesn’t want her to take that risk, that leap of faith. He doesn’t want to do this. He never wanted to do this.

_ You’re going to make me late. I have to go.  _

Allison blinks at him, eyes wide—

_ But...just do me a favor, okay? _

Her face fades into the visor, mending the cracks on the glass, until Tex is there standing in front of him. The hills of Blood Gulch are greener than he remembers, shaking under their feet as she looks at him and the sky is torn in half above them. 

_ Don’t say goodbye. I hate goodbyes. _

Then she’s gone again, without another word, in the dimness of dark rooms and cracked visors. It hurts, the unsaid everything, but he hides it, with an unfamiliar helmet on his head. White armor turning aqua, unsheathing the sword in his hands, a familiar shimmer of pale blue in the corner of his eyes before it vanishes, for the last time.

There are sparks flying and soldiers shouting as the heat melts through metal, held breaths and waiting muscles ready to spring into action. A final stand, a final message before he fades and leaves the world and lets his memories die (they won’t) and he thinks nothing is wrong, they have their friends by their side and weapons in their hands. But he knows he’s not coming back from this battle. He knows he’s going to shatter.

He doesn’t know it’ll be just like last time.

He grips the sword in his hand and lets the familiar weight guide him, the steady presence in his implants that is seconds away from fragmenting. They wait, exchanging last words, the wall glowing a red-hot shower of sparks as they ready their guns and goodbyes.

_ I hate you all the least, _ he says, as the enemies prepare to breach.  _ I guess this is it, _ she says, as the sky splits open above them.

He’s not ready, and never will be. He knows how to do what  _ he _ never did. He knows how to let go. 

But he also knows how to shatter. How to leave, without saying goodbye. 

Just three words, then thousands of them. And a choice. 

_ I forget you. _

_ I’m s— _

He jolts awake to a word on his tongue so bitter it leaves an acidic taste in his mouth. 

For a terrifying moment, he’s back in the operating room, white lights glaring harshly down on him. But this room is different—empty, smaller, quieter, without the machinery that glowed an odd pale light. The bed is softer underneath him, and his wrists are free as he pulls his hands to his chest.

Immediately, he lurches, trying to sit up, but the world tilts sickeningly around him and he falls back down. The breath rushes from his lungs, shaky, and his heart shoots suddenly into an erratic cadence, ears buzzing with a strange static. 

No. Not static. Someone is talking, a sound that lodges in the back of his skull but also sounds distant, disembodied. He forces his limbs to  _ move, _ anchoring at his sides as he pushes himself into a sitting position. His chest still feels like it’s being dismantled, his heart rattling against his ribcage. God. It hurts. The room is empty, but not quiet enough, why won’t the sound stop, why is it so  _ bright— _

_ Tucker. _

He freezes. The single word, his name, sends a shudder down his spine. He  _ knows _ that voice. 

_ If you’re—if you’re hearing—hearing—hearing this— _

It’s distorted, jagged and wrong like a skipping record, building up in his head. But Tucker knows who that is, and the name bleeds from his lips, reeling, shaky from his dry throat—

“Church?” he whispers. He reaches up and touches his temple, wincing. “Church, are you—?” 

The static shifts, barely, smoothing out and quieting. There’s something else humming in the back of his mind, a voice, a feeling, a—

_ Yes! I-I’m here! I’m here. _

—fragment. Tucker sucks in a breath. No, this isn’t right. This isn’t—

_ Hello? Don’t lea—hey, Counselor, are you there? _

Pain skyrockets through him, and his hands shoot to his head. He gasps, rocking back and forth, images forcing their way into the forefront of his mind, shuddering and overlapping until they merge into—

A gentle voice and a gentle smile but a gaze as sharp as a scalpel and next to him there are eyes peering shrewdly through glasses and a voice strident enough to make the world shake as he tells him she’s dead she’s dead because he failed and he failed her and it’s his fault—

That’s not Church. 

_ That’s not Church. _ There is no presence in his head, just fragments and ghosts and recollections. Tucker is alone, with nothing but his thoughts, and Church is _ gone. _

He can feel it—like someone ripped a hole in his mind, bleeding, a space filled with memories and voices but empty and hollow all the same. The Alpha’s pain is infinitely far away and right here, cracking apart to bring Epsilon until the world, but already the fragments are breaking to pieces, too, right there inside his implants. 

_ I hate you all the least. _

It  _ hurts.  _ The air is pressing in on him, like armor pieces that fit too tight and too wrong, like dim rooms with glowing machinery and trophy weapons. He squeezes his eyes shut and sees it, sparks slicing through metal in the dim room, as words that might’ve been his bleeding with an ache that cuts sharper than the heat—

_ See you on the other side. _

Too late to take it back, too late to change his mind when the door comes crashing down—

And opens, a quiet click. 

“Tucker?”

He doesn’t even have time to register the voice before there’s rapid footsteps and someone at his side, a gentle hand on his shoulder. He opens his eyes and his vision is blurry, the dimness fading at the edges. Yellow spots and orange sparks dance as he tries to turn his head, nearly tipping over as his breath trips and tumbles out of his lungs.

“Tucker, slow down,” someone says in a voice he knows, worried and relieved and familiar. Not shouting in pain or bitterness like the memories, a softened fear that trembles when he says his name. “Just...breathe.”

Tucker breathes. His head pounds in pain as he exhales, blinking and blinking until the face in front of him adjusts into view.

“Wash?” he whispers, his throat closing up, and he feels the hand squeeze his shoulder as a confirmation.

“I-I’m here.” Wash looks like a mess. There are dark bags under his eyes, and his hair is a bird’s nest. His gaze is careful, devastating in a way that sucks the breath from Tucker’s lungs and makes the back of his skull spasm in pain, hooded with guilt that pulls at his gut. “Tucker, are you—”

“Church,” Tucker croaks even though he knows it’s no use. His head still feels like it’s been stuffed with cotton, but it does nothing to soften the ache. “He...”

Wash’s hand tenses on his shoulder, eyes tightening in pain. His mouth opens and closes, but not a sound comes out.

Right. The memories sharpen into focus slightly, swirling like ink in water. The Staff of Charon. Malcolm Hargrove. The trophy room, the anger that crackled inside him when he saw Tex’s helmet—

No. No, that’s not right. That wasn’t  _ his _ anger. It was an ache, prickling, in the back of his head, in the Meta suit, and then...

_ This. _ This is  _ real, _ Tucker realizes, with a certainty that hits him like a punch to the gut. He’s awake and not living through memories. This is the present. Church is gone, except for the echoes that still ring in the edges of his head, even as he adjusts to consciousness.

_ I wish that there was another way. _

Wash reaches for something outside his vision—it hurts too much to turn his head again—and retrieves a paper cup, filled with water. He hands it to him. Tucker’s hands are still trembling so badly that he spills some, at the edges, but he manages to drink half of it.

“How…” His throat isn’t as dry, now, but there’s still something lodged there that makes the words difficult to say. He swallows. “How long have I been…?”

“A little over a week,” Wash says, and Tucker would wince if he had the energy to.  _ Fuck. _ He curls his hand around the cup, barely noticing how it crumples under his fingers, a bit of water sloshing over the edge. Church is  _ dead. _

_ You’ll understand why I have to go this time. _

Again.  _ Again. _ But there are phantoms and static in his head, and he knows it’s different than all the other times Church disappeared. He’s fragmented, gone forever, leaving behind these broken pieces that are  _ still here. _

Tucker feels something touch his hand. Wash is taking the paper cup from him, careful. Water drips down Tucker’s hand, soaking his hospital gown, but he can barely feel it. Everything feels wrong. 

“I’ve sent a message to Dr. Grey,” Wash says. “She’s on her way. Caboose, too.” He watches him, eyes soft with worry but stiff with pain, and it hurts. “How are you feeling?” 

“I…” Tucker doesn’t know how to respond. His head is still buzzing with an ache, his eyelids feeling heavy. They probably sedated him. His throat is hoarse and his wrists ache, though any sore marks that might’ve been rubbed into the skin have faded. 

But how does he explain the rest of it? The phantom ache in his chest, the feather-light whispers that weight like stones on his skull. He can still hear the voices if he lets his thoughts wander far enough, sinking into a darkness that curls at the edges of his fragile consciousness. 

“Tucker?” Wash prompts, sounding far away, and Tucker tries to focus on his face, the dark pinch of his eyebrows and the grim line of his lips. 

Right. Wash has been through this, hasn’t he? He’s offered a few stories, to explain the nightmares at Crash Site Bravo. The expression on his face is careful but soft, a knowing look in his eyes like he’s not really expecting a response. 

“Like shit,” Tucker says, his voice cracking slightly, and even that is an understatement. His chest feels hollow. “The memories…” 

Wash’s eyes tighten, pained, like the last inkling of hope had been shot right out of him, but hope he knew he shouldn’t have had. Tucker feels it, too, which is... _ stupid.  _ He knows it’s real. He can feel it even in his fucking sleep. But saying it out loud, admitting that Church had detonated a bomb inside his head, makes it feel  _ solid.  _ Irreversible. 

“I’m sorry,” Wash says, quiet. The two words make something seize in his chest, and for a moment he can’t breathe. “It wasn’t—it’s not easy. To deal with them. It…” He exhales, and Tucker keeps his eyes fixed on his hands, unable to look up and meet Wash’s gaze. “It won’t be for a while.”

_ The fragments I’ll leave behind will have the strength to get you through this.  _

Tucker would shudder if he had the energy to. He sinks back against the pillow. Fuck.  _ Fuck.  _ His head throbs with echoes of Church’s voice, almost like he’s still a shimmering hologram muttering in his ear. But Church isn’t here anymore. He’s gone forever, and the gaping hole in Tucker’s head aches and burns like a gunshot wound.

Forget  _ a while,  _ Tucker doesn’t think he can ever get used to this, the screaming whispers and flashing images. The merging of someone else’s mind into his head, a mess of voices and memories that won’t even let him grieve properly.

Tucker takes a deep, shaky breath, trying to stay afloat, before the memories bleed too far into his mind again. “You said...you said Caboose is coming?”

Wash goes along easily with the subject change. “Yeah. He’s been visiting you often.”

“And you told him…?”

Wash lets out a quiet breath. “Yeah.”

God. Caboose probably didn’t take the news well. Church has died so many times, but this...is different. Tucker feels it acutely. He doesn’t know how Caboose reacted to  _ that, _ the knowledge that Church has broken apart in Tucker’s head, leaving behind little pieces to pick up.

_ If I don’t come back then...you’re in charge of remembering me, okay? _

Tucker curls his hands into a fists. Something aches in his chest, crackling, but quickly dies down again without the energy to sustain it. 

“Caboose has been worried about you,” Wash continues. “And…” He pauses, looking hesitant, lips curling into a distant frown. “And Carolina—”

Green eyes flash, sudden, in the back of Tucker’s mind.

_ You say that like— _

The ache in his head crescendoes instantly, prickling, and Tucker flinches. Wash has stopped, staring with alarm that barely registers underneath the wide eyes that glisten with grief, dulled with bitterness—

_ —I’m sad she’s gone— _

“Tucker—?”

The whispers are getting louder. He inhales and finds that he can barely breathe, the guilt— _ guilt?— _ in his chest suffocating his lungs. The white room is blurring into indistinction, and he barely registers the hand on his shoulder, the light touch that feels too far away to ground him.

Her—Carolina’s voice is there, in the outskirts of his mind, and she sounds young and devastated and exhausted and angry. She’s crying—he has  _ never _ seen her cry, this isn’t  _ right, _ he knows things he shouldn’t—

_ How the  _ hell _ am I supposed to do what she couldn’t? _

Tucker squeezes his eyes shut as if it’s any use to block out what’s already in his head, the words that spiral and pull inside him. He curls his hands into fists and struggles to breathe, to refocus his mind on the present. 

“Tucker,” Wash says, worry high-strung in his tone. Tucker shudders and opens his eyes, though his vision is swimming too much for him to see anything. His muscles feel weak, all of a sudden, like he might fall over at any moment. 

“I—” Tucker’s throat constricts, choking on guilt. He doesn’t know what to say. His head is throbbing with pain, like it’s splitting apart along the mind half-melded into his. But thankfully, Wash doesn’t seem to need words.

He squeezes his shoulder and, slowly, helps him lay back down on the hospital bed. The lights are bright and painful, too reminiscent of memories even as his vision trembles and dims. Wash is saying something, but it’s unintelligible beneath the buzz in his ears. Still, Tucker tries to focus on his presence, the gentle touch of his hand. 

Exhaustion overtakes him. But it’s not enough to dull the pain, the fragile ache pulsing in his mind among jagged and disjointed memories. His senses sink into delirium, blurred, indistinguishable from the blue eyes and gray walls and black helmets that blink in and out of existence in front of him, like shrapnel, like glass shards, like—

_ —this? this—shadow?! _

_ —the fragments I’ll leave behind— _

His vision fades into splintered black and white and grays, and the swirl of memories and half-lives pulls him under.

  
  
  


The next time Tucker opens his eyes, Caboose is there.

“Tucker!” he exclaims before Tucker can even register he’s conscious again. The large blue blur, going in and out of sporadic focus in front of him, doesn’t fit into the hazy image of the operating room that still lingers in his peripheral vision, so Tucker slowly forces his muscles to relax as the world sharpens into clarity.

“C-Caboose,” he manages to say, his throat dry. There’s two other people standing behind him, near the door, and Tucker tenses again before he recognizes the familiar armor patterns, gray trimmed in yellow and white trimmed in purple. 

Caboose, standing right next to the bed, isn’t wearing his armor, just a blue sweater. His arms are held out in front of him, and he’s looking at Tucker in earnest, like he’s waiting for a response. He’s asking permission for a hug, Tucker realizes. He never did that, before, because he knew Tucker wouldn’t mind. Now...Tucker is grateful to not be overwhelmed, yeah. But there’s something else that rolls uncomfortably in his stomach at the thought of Caboose  _ not _ knowing him anymore. 

Tucker manages a nod, and Caboose immediately leans forward to wrap him in an embrace, surprisingly gentle compared to his past hugs. His body feels stiff in Caboose’s arms, the warmth familiar, but in a way that makes it feel like he hasn’t felt in a long, long time. And there’s still a tenseness buzzing in his limbs, a coiled adrenaline that screams at him to run, though he doesn’t know from or to what. He can feel Caboose’s heartbeat faintly against his chest, a contrast to the erratic pounding of his heart, and tries to breathe. 

“Tucker,” Caboose says again, but now that Tucker’s more aware of it he can hear that his voice is more subdued than usual, fragile and trembling with relief. “You’re awake.”

Tucker exhales. “Y-yeah. Yeah, I am.” He glances over Caboose’s shoulder at Wash and Dr. Grey, who are watching their exchange. Dr. Grey has the courtesy to glance away, while Wash keeps his eyes on Tucker, looking even more exhausted than the last time Tucker was awake. 

Caboose leans back after just a short while, no words necessary, which is unexpected. He looks tired, too, with the darkest eye bags Tucker’s ever seen on him. There’s a weight to his movements even as he stares directly at Tucker, eyes roaming as if to check for any outer injuries. He won’t find any. All of the awful pain and twisted memories in Tucker’s head, tearing him apart from the inside, and he doesn’t even have any bleeding cuts or bruises to show for it. 

Tucker’s gaze drifts to Caboose’s left hand. There’s something tucked into his fist, under his curled fingers. A small A.I. storage unit. Not like the old Epsilon unit, a big bulky thing the orderlies carried as he laid—

No. Fuck. Tucker blinks away the pain behind his eyes. He opens his mouth, lips dry and throat scratchy. It takes a few tries for the words to spill out. “Why...do you have that?” 

_ Stop it. Put that thing down. _

He knows the answer. Of course he does, as Caboose’s hand tenses around the object and he pulls it closer to his chest. “It’s Church’s storage unit.”

Tucker sees Dr. Grey’s eyes tighten, Wash’s shoulders tense. It’s easier to look at them than whatever expression might be on Caboose’s face. He swallows, feeling off-kilter. “But he’s gone, Caboose.”

Immediately he regrets saying it—he doesn’t have to look at Caboose’s face to know his expression falls, curling in on himself, shoulders hunching as he shrinks away. Tucker feels like the biggest asshole in the world. His head pulses with a heavier ache, and he suppresses a shudder, barely, guilt pressing on the roof of his mouth.

“He’s in your head,” Caboose says, and it’s Tucker’s turn to feel a punch in the gut. He flinches, and wants to bite back with— _ something, _ a rebuttal, a vehement denial like  _ no he’s fucking not, that’s not how it works, he’s dead.  _ But the words dry up in his throat as he hears those voices, Church among them, in the back of his mind.

_ If I don’t come back then...you’re in charge of remembering me, okay? Don’t let Tucker help, he’ll— _

“Caboose,” Wash says, not quite a warning, but the way he says his name is tense, cautious. Caboose’s shoulders curl as he glances back, but Tucker realizes that Wash is looking at him, a look in his eyes that holds concern so sharply it bleeds. Tucker breaks the eye contact. 

_ —just fuck it up. _

“Sorry,” Caboose says, quiet, and Tucker feels like something is spasming in his chest. He swallows and tries to use his useless fucking brain to at least get  _ some _ words out.

“’s fine,” he manages to croak out. He wants to make a joke about it, anything to clear the heaviness in the air, to establish some sort of normality. But nothing comes, and his chest feels so hollow it aches.

Caboose steps back, avoiding Tucker’s gaze and staring at the Epsilon unit in his hand. Tucker feels his throat constrict, and hot anger sputters in his chest. He’s too exhausted to let it spark for long, but still, the resentment at Church lingers.

_ You’ve had your fucking time. You have to answer for what you did _ —

Dr. Grey takes a step forward. Tucker glances at her. She looks...cautious, sincere, but that look is too familiar—the earnest  _ I’m only trying to help _ that was so convincing it burned through all your defenses, looking directly into your head, indistinguishable from the genuinity in Dr. Grey’s gaze. 

“Glad to see you’re awake, Captain Tucker,” she says. Her voice is light, but with considerably less of her usual sing-song. Tucker’s stomach rolls uncomfortably. She reaches for the cup of water next to the hospital bed and hands it to him. His muscles still feel weak, but this time he manages to lift it without too much shaking. 

As he drinks, he sees Dr. Grey turn to Wash. Caboose has rejoined him by his side, peering at Tucker nervously in a way that makes guilt linger inside his gut. 

“I’d like to talk to Tucker alone,” Dr. Grey says, and the air rushes out of his lungs. She glances back at him. “If you’re comfortable with it. I don’t want to overwhelm you. It won’t take longer than ten minutes.”

Tucker blinks and tries to will his heart to stop beating so quickly. He knows Dr. Grey. She’s crazy and terrifying but trustworthy when it comes down to it. Yet he can’t push down the conditioned fear that runs down his spine. “I…”

Dr. Grey’s expression is patient as she waits for a response. Tucker instinctively glances at Wash and Caboose, who look worried. Wash’s shoulders are tense, and Caboose’s eyes are darting nervously between Tucker and the doctor.

Tucker hates the feeling of it, like he’s being treated like glass. He’s— _ fine. _ Not great. But he’s still the same person he was before Church fucked him up. Right? 

He misses when his greatest fear at the thought of being alone with Dr. Grey was that she’d perform impromptu surgery/torture on him. 

“S-sure,” he mutters, finally remembering to respond. He sets the cup down a little too forcefully, and a bit of water splashes over the edge. “I—yeah. It’s fine.”

Dr. Grey nods. She looks at Caboose and Wash. “Can you two step outside for a bit, then? It won’t take longer than ten minutes.”

“Alright.” Wash is still looking at Tucker. Their eyes meet, and Tucker can read a quiet,  _ I’m here.  _ “Tucker, you sure—?”

“Yeah,” Tucker interrupts. He can’t make himself force a smile. “I’m good.” 

Wash looks at him for a moment longer before turning to open the door, heading outside. Caboose lingers, glancing back at Tucker, the Epsilon unit held close to his chest.

“Sorry,” Caboose says, again, and guilt twists in Tucker’s ribcage. “I didn’t—”

“I-it’s okay,” Tucker interrupts, because he doesn’t think he can bear another apology. He’s all too aware of Dr. Grey’s gaze on him, watching their conversation. “Caboose, I get it.”

Caboose looks like he wants to say more, but doesn’t. He follows Wash outside, and the door clicks shut softly behind them. 

Dr. Grey takes a seat in the chair next to the bed. Tucker turns back to her and hates the way his stomach drops when he meets her gaze. 

“Alright, then. It’s good to see you, Tucker.” She isn’t holding a clipboard or anything, and it’s not like he’s standing alone in a dark room looking at her through a screen. It feels nothing like an interrogation. “How are you feeling?”

And yet, despite her soft gaze, Tucker feels uncomfortable as he shifts slightly on the bed. Like he’s expecting to be scrutinized, watched intently, every movement tracked as they prod his brain and look for evidence, trying to see if he’s a threat, if he knows too much about—

“Tucker?” Dr. Grey repeats, and Tucker realizes he’s been sitting in silence for too long. He forces himself to respond.

“Tired. But I’m fine,” he says, and almost winces at how stilted he sounds. He looks at the floor, trying to force his muscles to relax and push away the faint voices, static, in the background. He’s fine. He can get through this without having his heart forcibly poured out of his chest, under scrutinizing eyes. 

Dr. Grey waits, but he doesn’t have anything else to say. His chest feels hollow, suddenly drained, and he wants to go back to sleep. Preferably a dreamless one, a comforting nothingness that could make him forget the  _ everything _ that’s been forced inside his head.

“Alright,” she says, her voice still gentle. She means well, probably, but the pressure on his chest stays. “I’ll admit that I don’t know much when it comes to your situation. Wash has filled me in on some of it, but I can’t promise my usual level of expertise for this.” 

She pauses briefly. Tucker doesn’t know what to say, so he just nods. She seems to take it as an acceptable response.

“From what I’ve heard, your experience sounds similar to PTSD,” she says, and his throat constricts. “You’ve been through a lot, Tucker, even before the Staff of Charon. All those memories will be hard to process.” There’s nothing like pity in her gaze, which is at least a degree more comforting. “I’m sorry. I know this isn’t easy, especially after losing a friend. But I will try to help in any way I can, if you let me.”

_ Oh yeah righ _ — _ since when have you managed to help around here? _

Tucker hates the way his heart shudders. Losing a  _ friend. _ Part of him wants to lash out at that, despite the ache inside him. But Church’s words are still ringing in his head and it fucking hurts. 

He wants to trust her. He knows that he can, and she’s probably a good person to talk to, but he just doesn’t  _ do _ this whole... _ talking _ thing. He never has. All the trauma or whatever he might have has been pushed down and dealt with in  _ his _ way. It’s always been like that.

At least some of the vague flashes of memory are his own, hazy recollections of the resentment that brewed between him and Church after he and Carolina returned. But still, dwelling close under the surface are memories that don’t belong in his head—Church’s, the Director’s, and some of Wash’s. And he doesn’t think he can talk about them even if he wanted to.

“T-thank you,” he manages to murmur. He means it, but there’s still too much spiraling in his head for him to continue. 

Dr. Grey nods, acknowledging. “Physically, you’re still recovering from the effects of the sedatives, and your body is still weak. I’m not going to keep you here long after you regain your strength. I’ll come back and check on you every now and then. Wash and Caboose will be with you.” She studies him, observant but softened with understanding. “You’re not alone, Tucker. I know it’s hard to open up, but keep that in mind.” 

“I…” Tucker swallows. “I’ll try?” He winces at how much it sounds like a question. But all the guilt and grief and resentment feel too much like open wounds. He doesn’t want to make them worse than they already are.

“Good, then.” Dr. Grey doesn’t look... _ satisfied _ isn’t the right word. There’s a concerned pinch in her brow, but she stands anyway. “I have to go. There’s a very interesting open-heart surgery I need to attend to.” She gives Tucker a slight, reassuring smile. “I’ll call Wash and Caboose back in. It was good to see you, Captain Tucker.”

With that, she heads to the door. Tucker stares after her, unease and dread curling inside his chest. At least with Dr. Grey she’s used to having patients, talking to people at their worst. But seeing the others with a mind that isn’t just his own anymore made him feel unsteady. Especially Caboose and the way he cautiously carried himself around Tucker, like he was a different person. It made him feel...strange. Like he was being exposed. 

He can’t even bring himself to make a joke for that.

Dr. Grey opens the door and steps outside. Tucker doesn’t catch the quiet conversation that occurs before Wash walks into the room alone, closing the door behind her.

Tucker blinks. “Where’s Caboose?”

Wash walks over to his bed and sits down in the plastic chair that Dr. Grey had just been in. “He went to meet with Lieutenant Andersmith.”

Tucker immediately feels a rush of relief, followed by immense guilt. He really doesn’t hold anything against Caboose. He knows how hard it’s hit him, Church leaving again. But he just—doesn’t want Caboose to see him like this. 

“Is he…” Tucker hesitates.  _ Okay?  _ he wants to finish, but it feels strange asking. Wash seems to understand what he’s getting at, though.

“He’s still processing,” Wash responds after a moment. “He carries the storage unit with him all the time. He’s been grieving. Talking to Dr. Grey as well.”

“Oh.” That makes just one of them, and Tucker isn’t anxious to make it two. “That’s...good.” He thinks back to Caboose’s expression, the way his hand clutched the Epsilon unit, and feels anger coil inside him, at Church. 

_ You’ll understand why I have to go this time.  _

Fucking bullshit. 

“I’m sorry,” Wash says, after a moment of silence. The words make something pulse in the back of Tucker’s skull.

He glances up at Wash, confused. It doesn’t seem like the typical condolence-type apology. “For what?”

Wash lets out a breath and looks away. “I wasn’t there when you woke up.”

Tucker blinks. He wasn’t expecting that. “What? It’s fine—”

“It’s not. I…” Wash sighs. “I just. I remember when I woke up for the first time from...this. Didn’t see a single face that wasn’t covered by an unrecognizable helmet. It was...bad. I didn’t want you to feel the same way when you woke up.”

Tucker feels something pulse in his chest, not exactly an ache. The sincerity in Wash’s voice makes breathing a little easier. “Oh.” He exhales and tries to find the right words. “Thanks.”

It’s something, among the memories that swirl inside his head. And Tucker is grateful, of course he is, but there are still flashes and static in his periphery, whispering in too many voices and recollections to be pushed away that easily.

_ I’m here to remember what you’ve done. Somebody has to! _

Wash offers him a wan, thin-lipped semblance of a smile that dispels the image of glasses and a weathered face, but just barely. “You should get some rest.” He reaches over, gently squeezing his shoulder. “I’ll be here.”

Tucker lets out an aching breath and closes his eyes. He knows he will be.

He just wishes he feels more reassured by it.

  
  
  


The haze of the sedatives wears off, eventually. Or maybe it’s the resentment that burns through it, because fuck the five stages of grief. Tucker is speedrunning right past denial and straight into anger.

Church is gone  _ again.  _ The reality of it settles in more strongly as the days go by and the static and disorder stays in his head, as jumbled as it has been, even without the sedated daze. Church really had the fucking nerve to just leave Tucker like that, to leave  _ all  _ of them, and he sure as hell did it with a bang. You’d think he would be  _ used  _ to this, after so many other disappearances, so many other deaths. But it hurt every time, and now—

It’s way worse. There are bleeding pieces in his head and he doesn’t know where one begins and where one ends. All because Church decided to leave again, play hero and make it all about himself like he always does. Maybe if he thought about it, for once in his fucking life, this wouldn’t have happened. 

The Meta suit was locked up in the armory, according to Wash. It had become basically useless after Church fragmented, just a smoking and heavy prison of metal. But they didn’t even need the goddamn thing. They probably could’ve survived without it, and yeah, Tucker would’ve probably gotten a bullet in some undesirable location, but at least Church would still be here. At least Tucker wouldn’t be fucked up in the brain.

The resentment burns, like ashes on his tongue or a brand on his skin. Worse than when Church left on Chorus the first time, when—

_ Never say goodbye. If you don’t say goodbye, then you aren’t really gone. You just aren’t here right now.  _

Fuck.  _ Fuck.  _ He can hear Carolina’s voice, can feel his own hesitance about leaving but that’s not  _ right,  _ that’s not his own goddamn  _ feelings.  _ It doesn’t help to see another side to it, not now, months later, when those memories and words have been forcibly shoved into his head.

He’s so fucking angry _ ,  _ but it’s better than feeling grief or guilt. Push all the blame onto Epsilon and cling to the rage that is his  _ own, _ not the helplessness or agony of other people’s memories. Try not to think about how it might be his own fault, for being so weak that maybe Church  _ had _ to use the suit to protect him, so maybe Tucker just brought this onto himself, maybe—

No. He shoves away all those thoughts, which isn’t particularly hard when there are thousands of other memories crammed into his head, reaching for the surface. It still hurts, the flashes in the back of his head, the whispers curling at the base of his skull. But he snaps and pushes back as hard as he can, lets the anger crackle and scream and make him feel bigger than he actually is.

He’s used to being pissed off. It feels good to have a constant, though  _ good _ is relative to how absolutely shitty he feels. 

So Tucker doesn’t cry and doesn’t grieve, chafing under Wash’s concerned gaze every day.  _ Fuck  _ Church. He doesn’t care that he’s gone, only that he went and fucked up his brain in the process. Why couldn’t he leave quietly like all the other times? Why did he have to make it like  _ that,  _ an experience Tucker never went through but felt, screaming in the operating room as the Epsilon unit overloaded his implants? 

He has so many questions that he will never get the answer to, even with the remnants of Epsilon smoldering in his mind. He knows Wash has the same questions, sees it in the tightness of his shoulders and forehead when he looks at him. But he doesn’t say them aloud, and Tucker can’t bring himself to, either. Not yet.

The memories wash over him in waves, over the next few days. He can’t stop the flow of new information into his head, an unorganized mess of voices and faces. He tries sorting them to little avail—it’s disorienting, and his head constantly throbs in pain. He can hear Allison _ (Leonard, come on, stop it) _ and the Director _ (get him to recovery!)  _ and the Counselor  _ (what was that he said about goodbyes?) _ and Tex  _ (do me a favor, okay?) _ and Carolina  _ (you need to let go). _ He can hear heart-wrenching screams in three different voices, coming from his own mouth even though two of them aren’t  _ his,  _ the agony of causing Tex’s death, the pain of Epsilon being forced into his implants, and then both of them compounded with every other memory, trapped in the burning Meta suit. 

It’s not just the memories of pain that dwell in Tucker’s head, though, despite how much grief and agony crowds behind his eyes. Church had personal messages for some of them. Recordings lined up ready to transmit, except they must’ve failed when he fragmented, because no one mentions anything aside from the general message he left behind. Tucker feels the words crash over him and nearly breaks down crying, but doesn’t, because Wash is dozing in the chair next to the hospital bed and Tucker doesn’t want to be a fucking  _ bitch  _ who sobs and wakes him up and gets him all worried.

So he sits there, bitten fingernails digging into his palms, and stews in the endless swirl of Church’s voice. He knows that Carolina’s starts off with  _ hey, sis  _ and Caboose’s has Church admitting to be his best friend and even Wash has a message, the shortest one, about events Tucker doesn’t know about but  _ remembers,  _ and it feels so dizzying that he wants to vomit.

He doesn’t know if it’s his responsibility or whatever to deliver those messages, and it doesn’t even feel like his place. He doesn’t think he could bear it, letting the words spill from his mouth as if Church really was still there in his head, and Tucker was just the mouthpiece, a shell that hosted Epsilon’s memories in his mind. Not himself anymore, now that those shattered pieces have embedded among his own thoughts.

Maybe it’s petty anger, too. A wretched, selfish need to foil the final step of Church’s get-himself-killed plan, since he decided to do it so goddamn suddenly. Even though the sincerity of each message hurts, intimate, with a meaningful weight that pressures the back of his skull and tears his heart to pieces. 

Church cared. It would be easier if he didn’t. Maybe then, Tucker could blame him so deeply that he doesn’t have to look at him and see the fault reflected back on his own self. It would be easier if they’ve always hated each other, if he didn’t say  _ I hate you all the least,  _ if Tucker didn’t have all of Church’s feelings in his head and see, laid bare, that Church really, really  _ cared. _

It would be easier. But he makes it so fucking hard to pretend, in his message for Tucker:

_ Hey... _

_...look, I know you’ll probably be pissed at me. So just sit the fuck down, alright? Take a deep breath, or whatever. Let me explain. _

_ I don’t want to do this. Of course I don’t. I like living, even if it’s with you guys. We’ve been through a lot. Mostly Caboose doing some stupid shit. Or the Reds being assholes. Or Freelancers and mercenaries trying to kill us. Okay, you guys made my life a lot harder than it needed to be, so fuck you for that, but... _

The hesitance is palpable, even though the words are clearer and steadier than any other thought that’s bled into his head. He blinks at the ceiling of the hospital room, the lights dimmed. Wash is asleep next to him. Tucker doesn’t do something stupid, like wake him up.

_ But that’s not the whole story. There’s something else. Something else that convinces me to do this. I know you know basically nothing about who I was, back in Project Freelancer. I was literally a coping mechanism for the Alpha, for the Church you knew from the beginning. Just...memories of torture and the worst moments of the Director’s life, shoved into one mind. And when they put me into Wash’s head I was a fucking bomb just waiting to go off. You...you can guess how that went for the two of us. _

_ I made my own memories, later. With you guys and Carolina and even Tex, but you—you know all of that. Fuck. The point is, I eventually became more than whatever the Director made me into. I became  _ Church, _ and that meant something to you, and Caboose, and the others. I liked that. It made me feel real. _

_ It’s just that...these memories are painful. They make me  _ me, _ but most of them aren’t mine. Most of them aren’t good for me, or for anyone. And I can’t keep existing like this. I know that’s kinda hard to understand, all this A.I. stuff, but you have to trust me. You have to trust that I know what I’m doing.  _

_ This is my choice, Tucker. I’m going to die anyway, at some point, being an A.I. and all. It sucks, because I’m pretty awesome to be around, but...these memories will die with me. So that’s one thing laid to rest, at least. _

Tucker’s skull pulses with pain, and he clutches his head. Something like laughter bubbles up in his throat, ugly and wretched. That fucking turned out great, didn’t it. What a foolproof fucking plan Church had there.

_ If you guys survive the Staff of Charon—god, I really hope you do, or I look like a real fucking idiot recording all these messages—just...chill, alright? Give the whole hero thing a rest. Hopefully the war’s over when you’re hearing this. Hopefully Chorus has gotten the peace it deserves. And you guys deserve a break, too.  _

_ I...I don’t know if anything I say can make this better. You never listen to me, anyway, asshole. But...fuck. I’ll try. These past seven years we’ve known each other...well. Since you’ve known me, at least. Including the Alpha. But we’ve seen some shit, huh? A-and I guess we made some good memories together. Memories I treasured. _

_ But you can’t—you shouldn’t dwell on the past, too much. It’s not healthy. Fuck. I know Caboose is going to be replaying my message for him, definitely. You have to look after him, that idiot. And yourself. Don’t get too stuck on this. On  _ me. 

_ I...I had to let go of Tex, you know. For her own good, and mine. Those words... _ I forget you _...were really hard to say. I don’t know how I managed it, in the end. _

_ But you’re stronger than me, Tucker. Don’t let it get to your fucking ego, but...you’re one of the strongest people I’ve met. Sometimes. Occasionally. Usually  _ I’m  _ the strong one for having to deal with your bullshit but—you’re alright yourself, when you can be. So I need you to forget me. I need you to let me go. _

A pause, almost a breath. A feeling like a split-second regret, one you have to ignore because it’s already too late.  _ I’m... _

_ I’m s— _

_ Just be safe, alright, asshole? Don’t die after I’m gone.  _

It ends there, with a surge of something so overwhelming that he has to take a moment to breathe, shuddering. The word is on the tip of his tongue, refusing to be said, refusing to admit the guilt and regret. 

Tucker’s head feels like it’s about to split open. He inhales and feels so fucking shaky, hearing Church’s voice like that, a phantom in his mind. He hates it. He wants to fucking punch him and scream and snap at him for being such an asshole, leaving like that. A real fucking hero. 

But it’s too late. The damage is done, and Tucker just has to deal with someone else’s memories, someone else’s pain, all the grief piling up in the base of his skull until the static makes him bleed.

It doesn’t go unnoticed that, across all the messages, Church doesn’t say goodbye. Not even once.

  
  
  


“Tucker?” 

Tucker blinks away the image of blue eyes and turns to the sound of his name. Wash is sitting on the chair next to the hospital bed, looking at him with a tentative expression.

Tucker tries to remember when Wash got there, between flashes of the operating room and the Counselor’s voice. Wasn’t it Caboose sitting next to him? No, it’s been far too quiet for that. He looks at the clock. It’s nearing seven in the evening. 

Then he looks down at the tray of untouched hospital food in his lap. He dimly remembers Wash coming in carrying it, though he doesn’t remember how long ago. Maybe that was when Caboose left. They’d been alternating like that for days—Tucker hasn’t been alone for more than half an hour in the hospital room. He doesn’t know how he feels about it. Grateful. Annoyed. Guilty. 

Wash is still looking at him, opening his mouth, and Tucker realizes—right. He has to actually respond.

“Yeah?” he interrupts before Wash can say his name again. He feels something shudder inside his chest as Wash blinks at him, tilting his head slightly. He looks exhausted. Tucker probably doesn’t look much better.

“Have you talked to Dr. Grey?” Wash asks, and Tucker suppresses an automatic flinch. There’s concern in Wash’s gaze, but Tucker can’t help the feeling that crawls up his spine at the unexpected question. It takes him too long to gather a response.

“Yeah,” he says, trying to keep his voice level. “When I woke up. And she comes in—”

“Besides that,” Wash clarifies, and Tucker freezes. “During those checkups. Do you  _ talk _ to her?”

Tucker swallows. Truthfully, no. And he really doesn’t want to. Since the day he first saw her after waking up, Dr. Grey sure as hell has made an effort to make him talk—no. No, not really, not in a forceful way that makes him feel trapped and paranoid. She asks him how he feels, what he remembers, in that sort of doctor-y way, but never pushes him to answer. He doesn’t know how to, anyway, because thinking about it too long makes his stomach roll and his mind ache. 

“Why?” he says, knowing he sounds like an idiot. He looks down at his food. The weird mushy stuff is spread around the tray, probably a result of him absent-mindedly shoveling it around with the fork. “I’m good, Wash. There’s nothing to talk about.”

“I...” Wash exhales. “I know it’s difficult, Tucker. To open up about this. When I…” He trails off, then shakes his head. “I didn’t trust anyone. Some rightfully so, but others...I was paranoid. Afraid.” He exhales. “Emily—”

“I know,” Tucker blurts out. “But I don’t—” He tries to find a response. “I don’t need to  _ talk.” _

“You lost your friend.”

It still feels like a punch. The pain burns like anger. “I don’t—Church is  _ always _ gone. This isn’t different.”

Wrong thing to say. Wash’s brow furrows. “Tucker—”

“It’s fine, okay? Chorus is saved. Felix is dead. Church got to be a fucking hero.” Tucker squeezes his eyes shut and feels something hot flash in the crevices of his chest. 

_ You say that like I’m sad— _

“He’s gone,” Tucker says. It hurts. “He’s an asshole and I fucking hate him. What else is new?” He curls his hands into fists. “So I don’t—I don’t need  _ therapy.” _ He’s gotten this far without it. He’s dealt with Church’s selfishness before. Even though…it’s his selfishness that saved this planet. That helped end the war. 

Wash had been updating Tucker a little bit on what was going on, since he can’t exactly leave the room. Peace talks have been going on with UNSC, after Church broadcasted that message across the galaxy and Chorus was rediscovered. Kimball has been organizing missions to scout some of the last few Space Pirate hideouts, and efforts to construct memorials being constructed for those who lost their lives in the war.

But Tucker can’t fucking help with any of it. The rest of Chorus has been celebrating the end of this war, and Tucker has been stuck in a hospital bed because Church decided to fuck off again—ruin one mind, save thousands of lives. Fucking great. 

_ The good guys win, the survivors all cheer, and everybody lives happily ever after. _

“I don’t need to talk,” he repeats, trying to shove the voice away. “I’m fucking pissed at him. He was being an asshole, and now he’s dead. There’s nothing else to say.” Other words rise up his throat, but he pushes them away, too. The anger at Epsilon boils, spilling over the edge, almost enough to veil the dizzying mix of guilt and resentment that still reels and tumbles inside his mind. He doesn’t want to articulate it, give the terrifying, concreting confession that this may all be his own fault, he was too weak, not enough without the Meta suit—

He can’t be weak now. He opens his eyes and looks at Wash, who is staring at him with...not pity. Concern. Empathy. It lessens far too little of the weight on his chest. 

“Alright,” Wash says, quiet. “But...if you want to talk, I’m here. You have people you can trust.”

Tucker nods, though something twinges inside him. It’s not that he doesn’t trust them. He just doesn’t need them to hear his bullshit, wasting their time untangling the threads in his mind. He can get through it just fine, by himself. 

He focuses on Wash’s face. God. His eyebags have been progressively darkening over the past few days. Caboose has been looking terrible, too, still holding onto the Epsilon unit. The familiar anger flares up in Tucker’s chest, along with the dull ache in the back of his skull, at his implants. 

It would be easy to blame Church. It would be easy to speculate what he felt, instead of having all those thoughts and memories embedded in his mind. But Tucker can manage. He’s always been good at getting mad at Church.

“Kimball brought up leaving again,” Wash says. “Just in passing—she knows it’s not a good time, still. She just wanted to remind us that we had that option.”

Right. Tucker could barely believe it when Wash had told him the first time, a couple of days ago. They’d spent so long on Chorus that leaving feels...strange. They don’t exactly have anywhere else to be besides Blood Gulch, which—

The sky is splitting open above them. He blinks and the image lingers, the too-green hills that shake and shudder and meld into the white walls of the hospital room. His stomach rolls uncomfortably.

“What did the Reds say?” Tucker asks, trying to distract himself. He hadn’t seen them since waking up, but apparently they had visited him a few times. He’s fine with their absence. He doesn’t need whatever condolences or pity they can conjure up. 

Wash shakes his head. “She just brought it up to me and C—” He stops, faltering. Tucker feels something pulse at the base of his skull, and hates it. He still remembers the last time Wash said her name—he doesn’t even know why he reacts like this. It’s not even  _ her _ name, the blue eyes that dwell even more often in the back of his head. But there are two disjointed minds and many more memories, colliding with the image he has of her. It makes him feel sick. “Just to us. She’s been rather busy. She’ll probably talk to all of us at some point.”

Right. When Tucker can finally get out of this room. He hates hospitals, and it’s not even like he has broken bones or gunshot wounds to be taken care of. He doesn’t want to be here. He shifts slightly. “So…?”

Wash glances at him. “What?”

“What do you think? Should we leave?”

Wash’s brow pinches. He looks away, and Tucker can tell he’s been thinking about it a lot. “I don’t see the point,” he says, finally. “Chorus is rebuilding fast, but they still need help. And Kimball has said that she’s willing to accommodate us if we choose to stay.” He looks back at Tucker. “But I understand if you and the others don’t want to.”

Tucker thinks about it. Unease stirs in his chest, at the thought of going.  _ Yeah, still, I hate to leave without saying something. They deserve to at least hear— _

He shakes his head slightly, squeezing his eyes shut. He clings to the resentment, instead, his own. The realization that Church was gone, after they first crashed on Chorus. “I...don’t know.”

“It’s a hard decision,” Wash says, acknowledging. “We’ve spent...quite a while on this planet. The Chorusans consider you guys heroes.”

Tucker chokes down a bitter laugh, Church’s words floating around in his head. Heroes. Tucker didn’t do shit, in the end. “Kinda feels like bullshit, now.”

Wash is quiet, for a moment, and Tucker bites his tongue, hoping that Wash doesn’t pry further. He doesn’t, thankfully. “We were a big part of their war. We helped end it. I guess...it became personal along the way, at least for me. And especially—”

The sound of the door clicking open cuts him off. Tucker hears a sharp inhale, footsteps coming to halt, and instinctively opens his eyes—

“Carolina?”

Hearing Wash say her name still makes Tucker reel, but not as much as seeing her does.

The cyan armor, first, makes something spasm in his chest, like solid guilt. Then he (so fucking  _ stupidly) _ looks up and meets her green eyes, tight and exhausted and so carefully guarded that they cut like glass. 

_ And, don’t worry, you’ll see me again. _

It suddenly hurts to breathe. He blinks and his vision fractures like a kaleidoscope, the bright room blinking in and out of focus with a dark facility, the dim glow that comes from the screen—

_ So, this is what you’ve become? _

Present-day Carolina hasn’t said a word. She’s looking at him with something that might be worry or resentment, and he doesn’t know if the flicker of grief is real or imagined from memories. The room seems to be shifting around her, blurring and tilting, and the guilt is curling its hand around his throat.

“Carolina,” Tucker gasps, dizzy. “I—”  _ I’m sorry,  _ he wants to say, but he doesn’t remember what for. The words hurt too much to get out, anyway. He hasn’t seen Carolina at all since waking up. She probably didn’t want to visit the guy with her brother’s ghost in his brain, and her bitterness is palpable in—

_ My friend? Who the  _ hell _ gave you that— _

She doesn’t react to him saying her name. Except...the face that now glimmers in the midst of his hazy vision is young, looking up at him with tears that don’t match with the hostile words he’s hearing. Dimly, he can register Wash saying his name, calling to him, but it gets lost in the rest of the voices that begin to crackle, like static, in his mind. Telling Carolina to let it go. The anger in her voice, the frustration that bleeds and wavers in a way he’s never heard before, almost vulnerable, or at least what vulnerability looks like on Carolina, no longer an open book with wide green eyes glistening with tears. 

It feels wrong, to see this, but there’s a mind unraveling into his and the memories keep tumbling forward. Conversations overlapping, grief and anger swirling together around an image of an old man with green eyes, a smiling face on the screen and letting go. Overlooking Crash Site Bravo and not saying goodbye and leaving without a word, the guilt expanding inside his chest as he leaves again and says everything to make up for the silence of last time—

_ Hey, sis...I know you probably don’t want to hear this message— _

Tucker blinks and blinks and blinks, his heart racing. The personal recordings, at least, are less tangled than the other memories, but it still feels sickening to hear words not meant for him. He feels a touch on his shoulder and tries to focus on it, pulling himself away from Church’s voice. The anger and grief that aren’t his burn even worse than his own emotions, and it fucking hurts. He hates the feeling, the reminder, of the fragments that collide in his head.

He doesn’t know how long it takes for the memories to subside, pushing away glimpses of dark facilities and glowing operating rooms. The buzz in his ears makes his head spin, but at least he regains his senses, slowly, the hand on his shoulder more tangible as the room quiets around him.

He forces himself to look up, finally, but Carolina is gone. The door is closed like she was never there. Tucker feels a jolt run through him and tries not to shudder at the empty space where she used to be, the image embedded in the back of his eyelids. 

“Tucker,” Wash says softly, drawing his attention towards him. Tucker feels something seize in his chest. Wash’s gaze, suddenly, feels all too heavy, despite the genuine carefulness in his voice. “Are you okay?”

It takes what seems like forever for Tucker to remember how to use his mouth. Even then, his mind still feels disordered. “I...she…” 

_ But I know they’re wrong. I know why you’re doing all this. _

_ Church, remember what you learned in the memory unit? You need to let go. _

“Church left a message for her,” Tucker blurts out, and immediately regrets it. He avoids Wash’s gaze, staring down at his hands, still trembling despite how hard he wills them to stop. 

_ C, remember what you told me—? _

“For a bunch of us,” he continues, despite himself. “Personal ones. About…” He doesn’t need to say it. What else would they be concerning? 

Wash takes in a shaky breath. “Oh. I didn’t…” Tucker dares a glance at him. Wash looks...surprised, almost, except it’s too weary to be that. “They’re in your head?”

Tucker nods. Wash exhales, eyes tightening. He squeezes Tucker’s shoulder, gentle, before letting his hand fall. 

“I’m sorry,” Wash says quietly. Tucker fights back the sound that threatens to come up his throat, something halfway between a sob and a bitter laugh.

“I don’t…” Tucker inhales, his throat closing up. God, he hates this. “I can’t fucking do this shit. Be a  _ messenger _ for him. He already…” It feels so selfish, coming out of his mouth, that he wants to scream. He digs his bitten fingernails into his palms, instead, staring at his hands. 

Wash is silent for a moment that stretches too long and too thin. His hand drifts slowly to rest on one of Tucker’s, uncurling his stiff fist. “It’s okay.” He ducks his head, and Tucker finally meets his gaze. His expression is open, genuine and empathetic despite the pain beneath the surface—he’s the only other person in the galaxy who could come close to understanding what it feels like. The only other living person, at least.

“It’s okay,” Wash says. “You don’t have to tell us. You can do it whenever you want to. Whenever you’re ready.”

Tucker wants to feel reassured. Of course he fucking does. But guilt curls in his chest. It feels unfair, to suspend the closure these personal messages would’ve given. He wonders if telling them what Church said would make Caboose put down the Epsilon unit, let Wash sleep a few more nights, cause Carolina to sit down and stay with him in the hospital room. But it hurts too much, still, and he can feel memories drifting behind his eyes, harsh lights and bright screens and gray walls.

_ He’s ready. _

_ Hand me the Epsilon unit, please— _

_ Sir, Agent Washington is prepped for— _

Tucker squeezes his eyes shut and curls his hand around Wash’s. It only helps a little bit as the staticky ache returns, pulsing in the back of his skull. He can’t keep the memories at bay. The voices hum in a constant buzz, faces flashing into the back of his eyelids. His own emotions lay dulled beneath the surface, the grief and resentment and guilt masked by the pain that doesn’t belong to him. That doesn’t belong inside of him.

Ready.

Tucker doesn’t think he ever will be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> usually i don't put end notes but i wanted to bring up something very important: please help the black lives matter movement in any way you can! sign petitions, send emails, donate if you are able, and if you're protesting please be careful. [here](https://tinyurl.com/blm-resources) is a list of petitions, tips, and other resources to educate yourself and raise awareness for the movement


	4. projector

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tucker talks to people without really talking. Everything feels off-kilter, out of place. Or maybe it's just him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im so sorry for another long wait, my motivation's been really low lately ;-; plus my power went out when i was supposed to originally wrap up ch4, so i used that as an excuse to procrastinate for another day lmao. it's still out, for the record, and i'm using my phone's shitty hotspot to post this 
> 
> also i literally had to split this into three parts, which is why the number of chapters increased again. i keep underestimating how many words a scene takes rip

Wash almost wishes the exhaustion was more numbing.

He hasn’t slept properly in a while, and he’s sure it shows on his face as soon as he walks into the hospital room with a tray of food. Dr. Grey gives him a look as she holds the door open—it reminds him of what she said to him about talking with her.

Hypocritical of him, really, to flinch away from the offer. But it’s not about trust this time. He just doesn’t  _ need _ to. He can get through it just fine, by himself. But Tucker, with all those memories, is a different story. 

Tucker lost a friend. Wash is just losing sleep.

“Thanks, Emily,” he says, as casually as he can. Dr. Grey blinks at him and offers a small smile, though there’s something sharper in her eyes.

“No problem, Wash,” she responds, light. “Have a good evening.” She steps past him and out the door. It falls shut behind her.

He’ll talk to her. Eventually. But it’s more important that Tucker does.

Wash heads to the chair next to the hospital bed. Tucker looks up as he approaches. Something flickers in his eyes when he sees Wash, too fast for him to catch. Then he shifts his gaze downward.

“Hi,” Tucker says, in a tone that sounds equal parts stiff and exhausted. 

“Hey.” Wash hands the tray to him. He almost asks  _ how are you feeling? _ but holds it back. Dr. Grey probably asked already.

He watches Tucker’s face. He looks tired. Wash remembers how hard it was to sleep soundly, with all of the memories at the forefront of his mind, and his heart spasms in his chest.

Tucker places the tray on his lap and clears his throat, keeping his eyes cast downward. “You sure you don’t have anywhere else to be?”

Wash sighs, sitting down in the chair. The plastic digs into his back, but the sensation is so familiar now that he barely notices it. “Tucker—”

“I know, I know,” Tucker says, quick, cutting him off. Wash didn’t know what he was going to say, anyway. “Thanks. You’re not hungry?”

“Already ate,” Wash says, which isn’t a complete lie. Tucker glances at him with a brief, skeptical look before picking up the fork, though he doesn’t seem very intent on eating. Wash tries not to watch him too closely, despite the worry that curls tightly inside him.

Silence falls, broken only by the tap of the fork against the tray and the ticking of the clock. The quiet still makes Wash feel anxious, uneasy. Sometimes he tries to talk to keep their minds off the elephant in the room. Sometimes there’s diplomatic news that he can share, or updates about how the rest of the Reds and Blues are settling into their post-war lives. But Caboose has always been more of a conversationalist, and Wash doesn’t know how to really fill the silence between them when it’s so heavy with the weight Epsilon’s left behind. 

The quiet means more time to think, which he isn’t exactly enthused about—more time for his mind to wander, into memories of Project Freelancer and Epsilon. Tucker’s experiencing worse right now, something that Wash himself went through years ago, the Epsilon unit latched to his implants and machinery blinking like strobe lights and a face smiling and fading right before his eyes.

This waiting in the hospital room, seeing Tucker wince and flinch and  _ remember, _ is pulling up the roots, bringing up the memories Wash worked so hard to repress.  _ Her  _ name still turns his stomach into knots, even after all these years left to decay. Epsilon’s memories, buried carefully by time, are still there nonetheless—blue eyes and goodbyes that he can never un-remember. And now Tucker can’t, either.

Resentment spikes again in the back of his mind, directed at Church. Wash lets out a breath. No use thinking about it now. Maybe Epsilon alluded to more of his motivation, in the other messages he left—but Tucker said he wasn’t ready to share them, and it’s not right to push him.

Wash thinks about the way Tucker’s voice shook when he said he hated Church, not only with bitterness but also a twisted, deep grief. They both know it isn’t true. And Wash feels too hollow to dredge up the hatred at Church that he never really had in the first place.

He can’t blame Epsilon for being made out of those memories, not when it was the Counselor and the Director who orchestrated everything back then. But the anger, with nowhere else to go, still puts pressure on Wash’s chest.

_ We prefer to think of it as no one’s fault— _

“Wash.” 

Wash starts. Tucker’s voice is barely above a whisper, but it’s loud in the silence. Wash glances at him and immediately feels guilty for spacing out. He...has to be the anchor. He’s not the one who’s had his mind splintered this time, and he can’t dwell on the time when he was.

“Yeah?” he responds, trying to keep his voice level. 

Tucker looks up at him. Exhaustion is etched into the lines around his eyes. “Go the fuck to sleep.”

Wash blinks, caught off-guard, and feels something tug in his gut, an automatic resistance. “I’m not tired.”

The words are instant, too, and Tucker doesn’t seem convinced. “Bullshit. You never sleep.”

“I  _ do—” _

“Here. Sitting in a chair. Doesn’t count.” Tucker glances back down at his tray. “I know you...didn’t want me to be alone, when I woke up. But I’m awake now. And I’m  _ good. _ I don’t need a babysitter, Wash.”

His voice is caustic, and Wash feels something constrict in his throat. He looks at Tucker and feels words building up on his tongue, but he doesn’t know which ones to say, which ones Tucker needs to hear and which ones he wants to. 

_ I’m just worried, _ almost comes out, and Wash winces immediately as he thinks it. It’s true, but it sounds...patronizing. Tucker’s dealing with the burden of all the memories, a heavy weight that solidifies in silence and isolation. Wash wants to  _ be there _ for him, an anchor in case the memories ever become too much. Like a few days ago, when Carolina triggered some flashbacks by coming into the hospital room. 

Wash doesn’t know if she was coming to get him, or to finally visit Tucker. He hasn’t seen her since then, which he feels guilty thinking about. He’d been staying even more with Tucker out of worry. But he doesn’t remember feeling something that overwhelming, back then, when it came to Carolina. He remembers the wrench in his chest, the sudden pressure beneath his eyes and the whispers of  _ goodbye  _ echoing when he was told she had been killed at Sidewinder, but under the watchful eyes of the Counselor he couldn’t show any of it. And she didn’t provoke that many memories, didn’t cause as severe a reaction as she does for Tucker. 

“You’re right,” Wash settles on, exhaling. “You don’t need a babysitter. But I’m not trying to  _ be  _ one. You don’t have to go through this alone.”

Tucker’s shoulders curl, a barely perceptible movement. He’s quiet for a moment, then: “But I don’t need you here twenty-four seven, dude. I can go one day without seeing you, and you need to fucking sleep.” 

“There are more important things than sleep,” Wash says, and Tucker turns to stare at him, incredulous. 

“Seriously?” he says. He shakes his head. “You always get like this when something shitty happens—”

Wash feels something lurch in his chest. “Like what?” It comes out too sharp, and he regrets it immediately.

“Like you’re suddenly allergic to closing your eyes for more than two seconds,” Tucker shoots back, matching his tone. “Look, I get that ’something shitty’ is a huge fucking understatement, but I’m not going to have another A.I. explode in my head when you’re not looking.” His voice is shaking slightly, but he meets Wash’s gaze head-on. “If you’re sitting here exhausted all the time, it’s not helping either of us.” 

A retort is waiting ready on the tip of Wash’s tongue, but he stops to think for a moment and…Tucker is right. Wash does get like this a lot. Sleep has never come easy to him, especially in stressful times, and his mind becomes too distracted, too troubled, to alleviate the exhaustion that surrounds him like a fog. 

But he looks back at Tucker and recognizes the bravado, the desperate insistence that he doesn’t need help to get back on his feet—Tucker has always been like that. Brushing off his pain, dismissing the feelings he keeps bottled inside him. Even now, with another mind’s thoughts mixing in his head, Tucker is pushing it down as hard as he can.

Wash knows the feeling. Understands it, but that doesn’t mean it makes him any less worried. 

Still, maybe Tucker has a valid point about sleeping. Wash lets go of the protest building up in his throat. It wouldn’t hurt to try. 

“Okay,” he relents. “I’ll go get some rest.”

Tucker blinks, like he’s taken aback that Wash is actually listening to him. “Good. Maybe you’ll look less like shit.”

Wash manages a wan smile in response. Hearing Tucker’s wit is always a good sign. But Wash studies him and still sees fatigue on his face, tenseness in his shoulders. There’s pain thinly veiled in his eyes, and he looks jumpy, startled by voices Wash no longer hears. 

Wash’s heart shudders against his ribcage. He leans forward, squeezing Tucker’s arm. “Just...remember that I’m here for you when you need me”

Tucker looks away almost immediately. Wash sees his fingers curl slightly. “I’m _okay,_ Wash. Just go. Send Caboose if you want.”

Wash ignores the way it stings, just the slightest bit. He takes a deep breath. “Alright.”

He gets up from the chair and walks towards the door, trying to dispel the unease in his gut. He glances back briefly as he pulls the doorknob, catching a glimpse of Tucker staring down at his uneaten food, a hand curled around the base of his skull. Then he steps outside and lets the door fall shut behind him.

He lingers outside the room for a moment, anxiety stretching taut in his chest, but he forces himself to step away. Tucker will be okay. And it’s not like Wash could offer much comfort with how bone-tired he is.

Still, to assuage the concern, Wash sends a message to Caboose asking him to check on Tucker in the morning if he can. Caboose doesn’t respond immediately like he used to, but Wash tells himself not to worry as he walks to his quarters. 

It feels as empty as most of the other words he says, these days. 

  
  
  


Wash... _ can’t _ sleep.

He tosses and turns on the bed for minutes or hours, he doesn’t know. His chest aches and his mind is spinning no matter how evenly he breathes, in the blanket darkness of his room. 

In the back of his eyelids he thinks he can see the faintest shimmer of blue eyes. Between each tick of the clock there are echoes of a grief that lanced through his chest so deeply it felt like his mind was splintering. Trapped and manipulated and torn apart by emotionless voices and lies of loss that aligned too closely with the truths of the past. 

His body is tense, like it was in the days following the fall of Project Freelancer. Lying awake in abandoned buildings, unable to sleep, waiting for a call from Command to give him orders. The voices in his head, fresh wounds, kept him up, and it was hard to hide everything he remembered from the Counselor. Everything he felt.

The memories of grief and pain that didn’t make it any easier to retrieve A.I. off his dead friends’ bodies, either. No matter how hard he tried to bury his emotions.

In between those missions, he was completely alone. Forced to deal with the aftermath by himself. He pushed away the creeping loneliness as he did the grief and pain that wasn’t his and suffered through nightmares that left him gasping and aching and even more exhausted. 

At some point, he managed to shut down completely. Looking back, he doesn’t remember feeling anything when he began working with the Meta. Just the grim, empty resolve to find Epsilon. A testament to how he changed for the worse.

Who knows how it would’ve turned out, if North had stayed by Wash’s side when he woke up after the implantation, if York hadn’t betrayed the Project, if Maine hadn’t turned into the Meta. Wash didn’t let himself think about it back then, but now the regret that twists inside him is so old it aches.

He wants Tucker to know he has people by his side. 

Wash didn’t, when this all happened to him. Only years later did he have Tucker and Caboose waking him up from occasional nightmares, when the worst of it had passed. He never thought there would be a repeat, but with Epsilon’s memories now in Tucker’s head, the weight of it all is coming back.

It’s not that he thinks Tucker is weak—no, it’s the opposite. He knows how resilient Tucker is, how much he’s grown during their time on Chorus. But he also remembers how it felt to have Epsilon in his head, the excruciating pain that turned into paranoia and bitterness and a deep-seated grudge. He doesn’t want Tucker to bear all of that alone.

He just...doesn’t know how to convince Tucker that he doesn’t have to. Tucker has always been stubborn and practically allergic to emotions. Wash remembers the shakiness of his voice when he talked about Church, the emptiness in his anger directed at him, and he doesn’t want Tucker to bottle that all up.

The result of Wash doing exactly that still hangs over him. He drifts in and out of hazy memories, surgical lights shuddering as the sound of Tucker’s screams in the med tent echoes over Allison’s voice. He tries to force them away the best he can, but still his mind wanders, on edge, the past dragged to the surface. Everything feels wrong, the room too quiet and too dark, his heart beating too quickly as he lays on a bed that hasn’t been touched in days, remembering buried thoughts that haven’t been touched in years.

When one of the half-decayed memories causes him to bolt up into a sitting position and knock his lamp off his dresser, his body coiled up and as restless as his mind, he decides it’s enough.

He leans down to pick up the lamp and puts it back on the bedside drawer, turning it on. He takes a deep breath. A thin sheen of sweat is on his face, and he wipes at it with his shirt, glancing down at himself. He didn’t change before climbing into bed. He probably smells as bad as he looks.

Sleep is a lost cause, so he slides out of bed and grabs a change of clothes. No one else seems to be awake—he doesn’t encounter anybody as he stumbles out of his room to take a cold shower. It helps clear his mind a little bit, though one look at the mirror tells him that it won’t be so easy to get rid of the dark eyebags on his face. 

After drying his hair, he steps back into the empty hallway, staring down the corridor of dim fluorescent lights. The thought of returning to his room makes him uncomfortable. He knows it’s useless to try and force his body to sleep, so he turns down the hall and walks towards the stairs instead.

Soon he finds himself outside, the cool breeze on his skin. It’s quiet and still—no longer are there cadets running around for late night training, guards stationed at every corner and Warthogs parked on every street. Wash does spot a few armed soldiers milling around, but that’s it. 

He tells himself he’s just going for a walk to clear his head as he wanders. There are a lot of construction sites around, most of them for memorials. He knows one of them is going to include Church’s name—Kimball had promised to honor him alongside the other soldiers who lost their lives in the war. Wash doesn’t let himself stare too long, the pit in his stomach growing heavier as he thinks about the sheer number of names that need to be etched into stone.

He should feel more relieved about the war finally being over. But he can’t shake the unease that perpetually curls inside him as he finds himself on a familiar route, his feet bringing him automatically towards the hospital. He hesitates, considering turning back, but sleep still sounds impossible.

It wouldn’t hurt to check on Tucker, right? Wash is already out here, and he’s tried sleeping to no avail. Maybe it’ll ease some of the worry crushing his chest. Tucker’s probably asleep by now. He’s had a couple nightmares that Wash had to wake him up from, and Wash knows all too well the feeling of being jarred awake and alone in the dead of the night.

So he keeps walking, and a few minutes later he arrives at the hospital. Inside, it’s busier than the streets but still emptier than he’s used to. After battles or missions there’d be soldiers overflowing the waiting room, shaken and somber, even with the bright lighting cast upon them.

Now, Wash sees a couple of young soldiers on their way out, wearing smiles and faces of relief. There are probably plenty of people still recovering from the final battle, but by this point a majority of them have probably been released.

Tucker’s probably due to be discharged soon as well. Wash makes a mental note to ask Dr. Grey for a more specific date. 

The receptionist knows him quite well, by now, and thankfully lets him in without any questioning. He heads to the stairs, since Tucker’s room is only on the second floor. 

When he pushes the door open to enter the stairwell, Dr. Grey is standing there right in front of him.

“Wash?” Dr. Grey looks surprised, though she covers it up quickly with a smile. Wash blinks, feeling vaguely like he’s been caught doing something he’s not supposed to.

“Hey, Emily,” Wash says, trying to be casual. “I’m just here—”

“I saw you heading out a while ago,” she interrupts, giving him a onceover. “It’s very late. I suppose you’re not here because you broke a bone?”

Wash winces. There’s an edge to Dr. Grey’s smile the more she stares at him and evidently realizes he’s still not getting rest. “No, I just…forgot something.”

“Right.” Dr. Grey doesn’t look convinced. Her smile fades. “I was just about to call you, actually.”

Her tone is serious, now, and Wash instantly feels dread rise in his chest. “What happened?” He automatically takes a step down the hall, towards Tucker’s room, but she shakes her head.

“Carolina’s here. She got injured on a mission.”

Wash’s heart nearly stops.

_ “What?” _ he blurts out before his mind fully processes it. “How—since when—?” He can barely get the words out, but Dr. Grey seems to fill in the rest of the question.

“She’s been going on a few missions despite Kimball advising against it,” she says. “She got back from one an hour ago with a broken arm and mild concussion. No one else was injured.”

Wash stares, fear curling tight in his gut. “Who attacked them?”

“Small group of the remaining Space Pirates. They’ve been dealt with, don’t worry. Carolina is being a tad less cooperative.” Dr. Grey’s lips tug into a frown. “I had to threaten her with my surgical skills quite a bit to get her to stay put.”

It doesn’t ease much of his worry. Wash had been meaning to check in on Carolina, but worry about Tucker was at the forefront of his mind. Before getting Tucker’s meal earlier today (or had it passed midnight already?), he did look and ask around for a while, but didn’t find her. He had no idea…

“Come on,” Dr. Grey says, stepping past him towards the door. “Her hospital room’s on the third floor. I’ll bring you to her.”

Wash hesitates for a moment, glancing briefly in the direction of Tucker’s room. His chest is hollow enough to hold worry for both of them at the same time, but he knows Tucker wouldn’t be very happy to see him back at the hospital at this hour. And he needs to see if Carolina is okay.

So he follows Dr. Grey through the door and up the stairs towards her room. It’s a short walk at their brisk pace, and soon they’re standing outside the door. Wash feels apprehension flare up slightly inside him as he stares at the doorknob, and feels guilty for it.

“It would be best if you went in by yourself,” Dr. Grey says. “I’m sure Carolina’s sick of me.” She reaches over to pat his shoulder lightly. “Seeing a friendlier face may help her open up without the need for my scalpels.”

Wash barely processes her words. Worry and dread both cling to his chest. “A-alright. Thank you, Emily.”

“Of course. I’ll be back to check on her in twenty minutes, I have a few other patients to see.” With that, Dr. Grey turns and heads down the hall back towards the stairs. Wash watches her leave, then takes a deep breath and opens the door to Carolina’s room.

It looks pretty much the same as Tucker’s, he notes as he steps inside, save for the potted plant that now lays in clay pieces and dirt streaks on the floor. Carolina is sitting on the hospital bed, legs over the side. There’s a bandage on her head and her left arm is in a cast.

Her gaze immediately snaps to the doorway when he enters, and a flicker of surprise crosses her stormy expression. It fades quickly, though. 

“Wash,” she says, looking away. Wash closes the door behind him and takes another step into the room, tentative. She doesn’t turn back to him, but she also doesn’t tell him to get out.

He swallows, trying to find the right words to say. “Carolina—”

“Don’t,” she cuts in. There are bags under her eyes and tension in her shoulders, her posture so guarded that Wash almost lets it drop. 

He doesn’t. He takes a seat next to the hospital bed, a familiar routine. Carolina glances at him again and swings her legs back onto the bed to give him room. 

“It’s not that bad,” she says, curt. “I don’t need to be here long.” 

“I think Dr. Grey is the judge of that.” Wash feels familiar worry coils in his throat. “I wasn’t aware that you were going on missions.”

He doesn’t mean to sound accusatory, but Carolina’s shoulders curl slightly. She doesn’t look at him. “I know.” 

Wash’s heart twists in his chest, and he lets out a breath. She really sounds like she doesn’t want to talk, which Wash has dealt with plenty, but he still doesn’t quite know how to broach the vast number of subjects that lay untouched between them.

“I’m sorry I haven’t seen you around recently,” he starts. It’s partially his fault, he knows. “I want to make sure you’re holding up alright.”

“I’m fine,” she says, brittle and bitter. “This is just a minor setback. I miscalculated and took the fall. I can go back into the field later if they need me.”

Wash stares at her. Her posture is rigid, dead set. For a moment he sees the Carolina he ran into years ago, on the hunt for the Director. Stone-cold and distrusting, so focused on her goal that she burned every bridge to get there. But there’s too much weariness in her eyes now, no matter how hard she tries to hide it, and no real goal in sight.

“Carolina…” Wash exhales, shaky. “There are better ways.”

“Better ways of what?” she bites back, but her tone makes it clear she knows what he’s talking about, and she’s not happy. She shakes her head. “I can’t—I can’t sit here and do nothing, Wash.” 

“No one’s asking you to,” he says, but she brushes past him.

“What else can I do if I can’t help on missions?” she continues, heated with something too weak to be anger. “There’s still a lot that needs to be done here on Chorus. It’s all part of war. Injuries and deaths—” She cuts off suddenly, features twisting. Wash sees her hand curl into a fist.

Wash’s chest feels tight.  _ The war is over,  _ he wants to say, but he knows it’s not that simple. A war isn’t over when the fighting stops. Too much lingers even after the dust settles, and some can’t be fixed with rebuilding projects or peace talks. 

Carolina’s shoulders are taut, her uninjured arm curled around her chest, and she looks like she’s using every ounce of her strength to keep herself together and hide that she’s trying. Wash feels his heart constrict, and he inhales shakily to collect himself.

“A few days ago,” he says, tentative, a careful redirect of the subject. “You stopped by Tucker’s room—”

“Wash,” Carolina says, and he stops. Something in her voice cuts as sharp and fragile as glass. “It’s alright. Maybe you should check on him.”

“He...didn’t want me there.” It stings a little to say it. He moves on before Carolina can ask further. “I’m worried about him. His reaction to seeing you…”

Carolina’s shoulders sag slightly. She looks down at her hands. “I didn’t know that would happen.” Regret and guilt color her tone, but the bitter edge is still there. 

“It’s not your fault,” Wash says. He leans forward and places his hand lightly on hers. “And it’s not his.”

“I know,” she says, with bite, and it sends a jolt through Wash’s chest. She seems to realize her change of tone belatedly and pulls her hand away, her posture stiffening. She’s quiet for a moment, long enough that Wash opens his mouth to say something, but she continues before he can speak. “He has all of Church’s memories, beyond Freelancer. That’s probably why he reacted the way he did.”

Wash blinks, processing her words. She’s right. Tucker received even more recollections than Wash did. Epsilon had tried to kill himself in Wash’s brain, but remained intact enough to pick up the pieces not embedded into his mind and carefully glue them back together with time. It’s not the same with Tucker, who’s had Church shattered completely in his implants, leaving behind a tangled mess without reconciliation. A different Epsilon from the one Wash encountered back in Project Freelancer.

It hurts even more to see a friend shatter.

Wash looks at Carolina. She avoids his gaze, eyes burning holes through the wall opposite the bed. It’s the first time, he realizes, that he’s heard Carolina mention Epsilon since they told the Reds about his message. He remembers the tenseness in her posture when Caboose said his name around her, and sees it now, too. He swallows. “Carolina...”

“It’s all part of war,” she says, an empty echo. “I can handle this, Wash. It’s nothing new.”

“That doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to mourn for him.”

Carolina’s hand drifts, as if subconsciously, to the back of her neck. She still doesn’t look at him. “Right.” 

Wash feels his heart twist in his chest, pressure building against his ribcage. Epsilon probably left a personal message for her, maybe something that would provide closure. But Tucker said he wasn’t ready to share it. Wash takes a deep breath and leans forward. “I’m here for you, Carolina. We all are. It’s okay to—”

“Save it for someone who needs it,” she says, abrupt, and the rest of the words die on Wash’s tongue. He stares at her. She looks ready to snap, and he doesn’t need to meet her gaze to see the enormity of the pain and bitterness inside her. “I don’t need you to walk me through this like I’m Caboose. I’ve lost people before Church. I—” Her voice breaks, slightly, but she rushes on. “I’m fine, Wash. I’ll get through this.”

Wash knows she will, eventually. She’s strong, like Tucker. And there’s a similarity in the tautness of their shoulders, the resentment that sustains them amongst grief but sputters too weakly to be maintained.

Right now, he sees exhaustion in both of them that he’s sure is mirrored in himself as well, and he wants to be there for them. To  _ help _ them get through this.

“Carolina,” he says, shaky. “Loss, grief—it’s not something that gets easier to deal with every time you lose someone.”

“It should.” She sounds so bitter her voice bleeds with it. “Practice and time make everything easier. It  _ should.”  _ She shakes her head and makes a sharp, hurt noise in her throat. “I just— _ fuck—” _

Wash’s heart twists in his chest. He reaches forward, lightly touching her shoulder. She doesn’t shrug him off as she shudders, pressing a hand against her face.

He can’t think of anything to say that could make this better. Make this easier. There’s no shortcuts or instant cure-alls—just crumbling and decaying edges in hospital rooms, glued back together with shaking hands. Wash squeezes Carolina’s shoulder as she pulls herself together, every word exhausted and wrung out of her. 

Back then, he was the one in the hospital bed. But it’s not any easier this time, when the air around them is choked with grief and the half-decayed memories show they’re still here to stay.

Wash inhales, closing his eyes in the heavy, heavy silence, and tells himself to get used to the quiet.

  
  
  


Wash hasn’t come back in a record twelve hours.

Tucker’s fine with that. Of course he is. He’s the one who asked him to leave in the first place, because Tucker is fine and doesn’t need a babysitter. He’s just...getting used to the quiet.

Not that it’s really quiet. Not that the silence in the room is peaceful in any way, because the voices in Tucker’s head are incessant and crescendoing and overwhelming. It makes the hospital room feel too big, too bright, too empty. He keeps seeing movement in the corner of his eye, and if he follows it too closely the room around him seems to shift—the walls flash in bright blue alien markings, harsh surgical lights glare down from the ceiling, sparks fly through the cracks around the door. 

Caboose hasn’t come by, either. Maybe Wash didn’t send him a message, or maybe Caboose didn’t see it. So Tucker’s been alone for a record twelve hours, too. He’s also fine with that. He isn’t really alone, anyway, with all the voices in his head. The whispers echo too loudly, every little murmur provoking some buried recollection, reminding him of things he never experienced but remembers in vivid detail.

At least he’s never bored. Tucker wishes he could at least  _ pretend  _ that was the most of his concerns. 

He’s not fooling anyone, as it is, especially not Wash. Tucker remembers the worry in his gaze and feels guilty with how much he hates it. Wash just cares. He knows how this all feels, and he wants to help. 

But Tucker doesn’t need other people’s concern. He doesn’t need them to look at him with gazes too pitiful to be comforting, treading on eggshells like he’s a different and fragile person. He’s  _ not. _ Who the fuck cares that Church is dead again. Tucker doesn’t miss him and never has. He’s just pissed, about the wreckage left behind, the pain that shudders in the base of his skull when his mind drifts too far. And he knows how to deal with being pissed at Church: blame it all on him, repress every emotion he’s ever felt, and try to move on. 

Except Church isn’t really  _ gone,  _ not when his memories are still haunting Tucker. Not when Tucker tries to doze off and instead hears Church’s words floating around in his head, bleeding too much sincerity in his unspoken goodbyes. The enormity of how much he cared is laid bare, in the raw pain screaming Tex’s name, the steadfast concern telling Carolina to let go, the tentative softness saying that Tucker needs to forget him—

_ Don’t get too stuck on this. On  _ me. 

Yeah, well, Church is making it  _ real _ easy, isn’t he. 

How is Tucker supposed to talk about how he feels when he doesn’t know if he’s feeling his own emotions, his own memories? And if Church’s  _ made  _ of those memories inside his head, how the fuck is Tucker supposed to mourn someone who isn’t really gone?

He knows rationally that Wash can help him. Probably Dr. Grey, too, despite her tendency to threaten people with unpleasant surgical procedures. But he hears whispers telling him not to let his guard down, not to say goodbye. He hears the Counselor’s dangerously pleasant voice and Allison’s fondly exasperated one, intertwining and pushing the words down in his throat.

Talking means, among other things, saying goodbye—

_ How the hell am I supposed to do what she couldn’t? _

—and he’s pretty sure he’s inherited the aversion to final endings and farewells. 

_ I need you to forget me. I need you to let me go— _

The door clicks open.

Tucker hates how his heart jumps in his chest at the sound—from relief or fear, he doesn’t know. It’s fine. Wash won’t push him too hard to talk, at least for now. He takes a deep breath, keeping his eyes fixed on his hands and trying not to seem like a trainwreck. “Hey, Wash. Did you—”

“Captain Tucker?”

Tucker’s eyes snap to the doorway. It’s not Wash standing there.

_ “Palomo?”  _

He doesn’t often see Palomo out of his aqua-trimmed armor. The stupid annoying face is still the same, though, with a bright grin that doesn’t dim even as he steps into the room and closes the door behind him. He’s probably the first person Tucker’s seen since waking up who doesn’t look sleep-deprived. “Hey, sir!”

Tucker swallows the lingering shock and tries not to wince at how fucking terrible he probably looks. “What the hell are you doing here?” His words come out rough and shaky, but Palomo doesn’t seem to be bothered.

_ Hello, Epsilon. You came all this way just— _

“To see you!” Palomo says, approaching the hospital bed. He takes a seat in the chair. “I visited a few times before, but you were still asleep. You, uh, kinda freaked everyone out with the screaming thing after you came off that huge spacecraft.”

_ I’m here to remember what you’ve done. Somebody has to! _

“Right.” Tucker tries to push away the voices and focus. Fuck. He remembers Wash telling him about the med tent and bites back a groan, preparing himself as usual for a typical conversation with Palomo, except...it isn’t really  _ typical,  _ now. There’s a bit of actual concern in the kid’s eyes, concealed under nonchalance but still, Tucker’s gotten used to picking up on that look. “I’m fine.”

“What happened?” Palomo prods. “You were in a coma for a  _ while, _ sir. Bitters was in the med tent during the whole thing and he said you seemed really—” He makes a vague gesture that Tucker isn’t sure how to interpret. “But you don’t even look injured.”

_ Really?  _ Tucker wants to bite back.  _ Wow, I didn’t notice. Thanks a fucking lot, Palomo. _ But it gets stuck in his throat. The Meta suit did work, after all, keeping him from getting any gunshot wounds or cracked bones. Except the fragmented pain in his mind now is much worse than anything he would’ve suffered without Church running it.

Tucker doesn’t know how much Palomo knows, though. Word of Church’s death has reached everyone, by this point, but the memories inside Tucker’s head are a different story. Palomo seems a bit worried, yeah. Maybe confused. But he isn’t like Wash or Caboose or Dr. Grey. He’s acting pretty normal, actually. Like Tucker’s still the same person.

That’s what Tucker wanted, right? He doesn’t want to be treated like he’s fragile. He doesn’t want people to look at him and just see the shattered remnants of Church taking up every inch of space in his head.

But he doesn’t think he can handle this, either.

“I think I’ll be out of the hospital soon,” Tucker says, cutting off what Palomo seems to be about to blurt out. He’s getting a really bad habit of not answering people and letting silence fall over the room. “I told you I’m fine. And you need to stop telling everyone whatever bullshit stories you’re making up.”

“I’m not making up bullshit stories!” Palomo protests. Tucker stares at him, and Palomo only holds his gaze for a few seconds before his shoulders sag. “Okay, fine. But I wouldn’t be if I knew what actually happened!”

Tucker sighs. “That’s not my point—”

“It was a big fight up there, wasn’t it?” Palomo barrels on. “All like, pew-pew! Bang! Swish-stab! And I saw the huge armor suit, it looked really cool! What did Agent Washington call it, the Meteor suit?”

“Meta, Palomo.” Tucker pinches the bridge of his nose. The events on the Staff of Charon are still fuzzy, buried under the weight of all the other memories. “And it’s useless now, there’s no way to run it anymore.” Even if there was, Tucker’s never fucking putting it on again. 

“Oh.” Palomo sounds a bit disappointed. Then there’s a flicker in his eyes, like realization, and his smile drops suddenly, replaced by a guilty expression. He looks down. “Oh. Um. I’m sorry about...”

Tucker feels dread plummet like a stone inside him. “Don’t—”

“At least he died a hero.” 

Palomo says it half as a question, and it feels like a punch to the gut. So much for normal.

It’s not the kid’s fault, but Tucker can’t control the bitterness that immediately rises in his throat. This  _ hero  _ talk, the worship—he hates it. Whatever bullshit Church was sprouting about being a hero and never seeing the happy ending, an illusion of badass selflessness disguising the pain and grief left behind, all so Church could go out with a bang like his arrogant ass always wanted.

Tucker always figured they’d survive whatever was thrown at them, sometimes literally. A tank, a conspiracy, a manhunt, a knife to the gut. Like cockroaches, almost. They’d always get out alive and together with just a couple wounds and a badass story to show for it.

The illusion is shattered now. Fuck that. Church is dead and there’s no more miracles left, no ghosts or fragments or dramatic entrances. Just all the memories inside his brain, and all the stories the Chorusans hear about the colorful space marines who saved the planet with just another badass fight.

What a great fucking ending. 

_ You’ll understand why I have to go this time— _

“Uh, sir?”

Tucker inhales and feels his heart beat, too fast, against his ribcage. Shit.  _ Fine. _ He can’t fucking say that things haven’t changed and that he isn’t mourning. He’s never going to be the same again, not when the base of his skull is still flaring up with pain and Church’s memories can’t get the fuck out of his head. Happy?

But he’s  _ not _ doing this shit in front of his fucking lieutenant. He lets out a breath, the movement making his chest ache, and squeezes his eyes shut. “Palomo?”

“Yeah?”

_ Shut the fuck up, _ he almost says, but the words are familiar and empty and not enough to get his point across. He lets out another breath. “I’m  _ really  _ not in the mood.”

It comes out harsher than he means it to be. Tucker feels guilt snake up his throat, but he doesn’t take it back.

“Oh.” Palomo sounds hurt, and it makes his chest burn. “Okay.”

Silence. Tucker opens his eyes and sees Palomo just sitting there, looking down at the floor. “That means leave, Palomo.” 

“R-right.” Palomo scrambles to his feet and does an awkward salute, almost stumbling over the chair. Tucker doesn’t know what expression is on his face, but it probably isn’t pleasant, because Palomo avoids his gaze entirely as he plods to the door and opens it. 

It feels like there’s something choking his airways. He’s never seen Palomo so apologetic and timid. It’s not his fucking fault, but Tucker doesn’t think he can physically say another word to offer any comfort.

_ I’d hate to leave without saying something— _

“Sorry, sir,” Palomo whispers, before the door closes gently and his footsteps fade away. Tucker inhales and tries to quell the overwhelming guilt in his chest, settling against the bed.

He can hear the clock ticking again, faint, a stillness blanketing the room. But even with Palomo gone, there still isn’t any peace and quiet. Of course there isn’t. The voices, the people in Tucker’s head can’t just walk out a door. They’re there to stay, even if they didn’t in memories. Even if they’ve gone without saying goodbye.

Tucker closes his eyes and knows there’s no use in pretending. But maybe if he doesn’t say the words, it’ll make what’s already gone last just a little bit longer.

  
  
  


Wash returns a few hours after Palomo leaves, somehow looking even more exhausted than when Tucker last saw him. They talk and he hides something and Tucker doesn’t call him out for being a hypocrite, even though he wants to. Just another trauma-related similarity between them to check off. 

The next week falls back into the new pattern that’s developed—Wash brings Tucker meals and sits by his side for hours, quiet and grounding and perhaps a little bit suffocating. He does spend  _ less  _ time with him in the hospital room, though he doesn’t seem to be getting any sleep when he’s not here. It’s not much of an improvement, and the hours that Tucker’s left alone seem to stretch into days. 

Physically, at least, Tucker feels better. He tries walking around the room, because hey, maybe pacing and brooding is better than sitting on a hospital bed and brooding. His legs feel shaky and weird and cramped as hell from the countless days they haven’t been used. 

Wash offers to help steady him, but Tucker’s still got a little pride left and if he can’t  _ walk  _ on his own, maybe he does need a babysitter. He has to use the wall to support himself, Wash and sometimes Dr. Grey watching him as if it wasn’t embarrassing enough. But it gets easier, after a few tries. It’s the only thing that does. 

Palomo doesn’t come back, and Tucker does his best to push away the guilt, but it just makes him feel worse. He wonders if he’s told the other lieutenants about him, if Wash or Dr. Grey or even Caboose have finally explained the actual situation to them. He doesn’t know which way he prefers it.

He only sees Wash and Dr. Grey for the whole week, and it’s the same  _ we just want to help _ he hears and sees over and over again. There’s an echo of a treacherously soothing voice in the back of his mind, making the back of his skull flare up with pain and his heart race, terrified, in his chest. 

He knows Dr. Grey is nothing like the Counselor. He knows Wash went through the same damn thing, the fear and pain and grief unraveling inside his head until he trusted no one except himself, and even then only barely. But opening up is neither easy said nor done, and Tucker can’t even soothe his own concerns, much less theirs. 

And then there’s Caboose. Tucker hasn’t seen him all week, and can’t deny the surprise that sparks in his chest when Caboose shuffles in one afternoon, after an uneventful morning.

The first thing Tucker notes is how exhausted Caboose seems. His shoulders are slumped, and his voice is subdued as he mumbles a soft, “Hi, Tucker.” He’s still clutching the Epsilon unit. Tucker doesn’t let his gaze linger on it for too long as Caboose approaches the bed.

“Hey, Caboose,” he responds. Caboose doesn’t look like he’s been sleeping well, either. At a closer glance Tucker can see a red rim around his eyes. His chest tightens. 

Caboose takes a seat in the chair, folding his hands in his lap and covering the Epsilon unit. He glances up at Tucker. “Sorry for not visiting more.”

Tucker swallows. He wonders what Caboose has been doing, lately. If he’s coping any better with this. “It’s—alright.”

Caboose doesn’t seem convinced. Tucker’s been getting that look a lot. “Washington said you might be able to leave the hospital today. I think the nice scary doctor lady will be coming soon.”

“Today?” Tucker remembers Dr. Grey mentioning it, but he’s been pretty fucking bad at keeping track of time, lately. “Why isn’t Wash here?” 

“He’s upstairs with Caro—” Caboose stops. Tucker sucks in a breath and pushes back the green eyes that immediately pulse in the back of his mind. Caboose’s shoulders slump. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s—”  _ Okay. _ But then the beginning of Caboose’s sentence registers, and Tucker blinks. “Wait, upstairs?”

Caboose glances at the ground, not meeting his gaze. “Ah. I mean. Definitely not upstairs. They are...downstairs. In the, uh...basement...?”

“Caboose.” Tucker takes a deep breath, concern that feels half-foreign rising inside him. “Why is she in the hospital?”

Caboose’s shoulders hunch slightly, and he looks guilty. Maybe Wash told him not to tell him, and part of Tucker feels bad, but the other part is restless and anxious and maybe a little bit bitter. He knows Wash has been hiding something from him recently. “Caboose—”

“She got hurt on a mission,” Caboose mumbles.

The overwhelming worry that shoots straight into his gut feels like Felix’s knife.  _ “What?” _

“Washington said it’s not super bad,” Caboose says quickly. “But she was feeling sad and angry and when she gets sad and angry she tries to punch things. You know. Scary lady.”

Yeah, of course Tucker fucking knows that. But his mind is spinning all of a sudden and dredging up flickers of memory that make him feel like he’s being pummeled by Tex drones, watching Carolina from inside her implants as she throws herself into battle, her thoughts tumbling against his with a simple, fierce,  _ it’s not bad if you don’t let it hit you— _

Too fucking late for that, now. She doesn’t have a voice in her head anymore and Tucker does, compounded with memories of Carolina that aren’t his and a painful, longing ache that tastes almost like regret on the ashes of his tongue. He’ll never see her again and it’s almost enough to keep him here, but as much as he wishes that there was another way—

_ Carolina, I don’t think I can do this much longer—!  _

“Tucker?”

Fuck. Caboose just fucking got here, Tucker can’t keep doing this shit. He shudders and tries to force Church’s memories out of the forefront of his mind, blinking rapidly. It feels like his chest is cracking open, every breath harsh against his ribcage, worry choking his throat.

A hand pats his shoulder, clumsy and gentle. Tucker inhales. He forces himself to look at Caboose and immediately wishes he didn’t—there’s concern in his eyes, fear that crushes him under its guilty weight. Tucker swallows and takes his hand off the back of his skull. He doesn’t even remember putting it there.

“It’s fine,” he manages to croak. “Don’t—don’t get Wash. Or Dr. Grey.”

Caboose continues to stare at him, hesitant, and Tucker is afraid for a moment that he will. There’s something else buried in his gaze, like he’s realizing how deep the wound Church left is, how much the memories have changed Tucker in a way so tangible it hurts.

Well. Welcome to the club. 

“Okay,” Caboose says, finally. But then he adds, “Do you wanna talk about it?”

Something immediately lurches in Tucker’s gut. “No.”

Caboose blinks, looking doubtful, but nods slowly. He’s still studying Tucker, his eyes sad and sincere. Tucker looks away and down at his hands, feeling something coil tightly inside his chest.

He expects the conversation to stop there, a dead end. He doesn’t expect Caboose to ask, quiet but deafening, “Do you miss him?”

Tucker inhales sharply. It feels like a sucker-punch. When he said he didn’t want to talk about Carolina, he didn’t mean he wanted to talk about _ him.  _ “Caboose—”

“I don’t know,” Caboose says, and his voice wobbles. “I don’t know if I miss Church. I don’t know if I’m sad. ’Cause if I do, and I am, then he’s really…” He trails off, taking his hand off Tucker’s shoulder to wipe at his eyes. “He’s really not coming back.”

_ That’s not how it works,  _ Tucker can’t bring himself to say. Death and Church have always been weird as fuck, and Caboose never did get a full grasp of it. Tucker can’t really blame him, with the amount of times Church has done his disappearing-and-reappearing act.

But it’s different now. 

_ He’s in your head,  _ Caboose had said when Tucker first woke up. And he’s right, at least partially. Tucker doesn’t want to fucking miss Church—he’s  _ sick  _ of him, hearing his voice and memories scrambled in his mind every single second of the day. But he looks at Caboose and knows he can’t say that, because Caboose is sitting there with his arms wrapped around himself and his hand curled around the Epsilon unit, looking for reassurance that Tucker just can’t fucking offer.

“I...” Tucker feels shaky, and he can’t make himself meet Caboose’s gaze. His chest aches. “I don’t know, either. But I know he’s not coming back.”

_ This is my last stop. _

Caboose doesn’t respond. His lip trembles, and he’s gripping the Epsilon unit like it’s a lifeline, like Church is still inside and all he needs is another robot body to build him back to life again.

The regret that rises in Tucker’s throat is twofold. He doesn’t have any words of his own left to say. 

_ If I don’t come back then...you’re in charge of remembering me, okay? Don’t let Tucker help, he’ll just fuck it up. _

God. He thinks about the certainty in Church’s voice, certainty that he could still feel even when his and Tucker’s minds were simply sharing a headspace, when he told Tucker to put on the Meta suit. He trusted him. To escape the Staff of Charon, to deliver his personal messages, to look after Caboose, to forget him and let go. 

_ Caboose, buddy, I...don’t know how I’m going to explain this, but— _

Tucker squeezes his eyes shut. Fuck. The words aren’t his to say, but he’s the only one who can provide that closure. He has to be the messenger, because Church was apparently too busy  _ being a hero _ to wrap up his own goddamn ending. He would probably be pissed to find that Tucker’s messing with his legacy, but it wouldn’t hold a fucking candle to the resentment and guilt that suddenly feels like it could swallow Tucker whole.

Tucker doesn’t know what he would’ve said or done to fill the stretching, suffocating silence if it hadn’t been broken by a sudden knock on the door.

His eyes snap open, and he immediately straightens, trying to push away the aching memories before he even glances at the doorway. He sees Caboose unfurl, too, like he’s forcing the tension to bleed from his shoulders, hiding the heaviness that sits between them.

None of that seems to fool Dr. Grey, though, as she steps into the room. She runs an assessing eye over the both of them, a clipboard and medical scanner in her hands, like she’s mapping out the best way to broach the subject they’re both pretending doesn’t exist.

“Caboose,” she says finally, inclining her head in greeting. Her usual, borderline-creepy cheer is still absent from her voice. “Tucker. How are you?”

“Fine,” Tucker says without thinking, which invokes a look from Dr. Grey.

“I know that doesn’t cover it,” she says, not in a condescending or patronizing way. Just like she’s stating a doctor-y fact. Her gaze slides to Caboose, who’s staying quiet and looking down at his hands. “Caboose?”

Caboose shifts slightly in his seat. “I don’t…I don’t know.” He sounds lost, hesitant, his words barely above a whisper. But it’s a hell of a lot more than what Tucker’s admitting.

“Do you want to have another session?” Dr. Grey asks, tilting her head. “I’m not very busy tomorrow. We could figure out some proper scheduling.”

Tucker feels his chest tighten in protest on Caboose’s behalf. But Caboose nods, slowly, and his grip loosens slightly on the Epsilon unit. The idea of agreeing to that still makes Tucker’s fight-or-flight instinct spark, but Caboose has always been more open to the  _ talking about feelings _ stuff.

Dr. Grey turns back to Tucker, and he’s grateful there isn’t a  _ See? It’s that easy! _ sort of expression on her face. Not that he expected her to be like that, but still.

“I’m not going to force you to talk about the memories, Tucker,” she says to him, gentle but firm. “However, I can’t fully help you until you’re willing to open up.”

Tucker swallows. Opening up would’ve gotten him killed, once. And he still can’t shake that fear, even if Wash himself is encouraging him to talk to Dr. Grey. 

_ I just need a bit more time. _

To get things right, to fix this, to bring her back. To say the three words and thousands more that he needs to get out. It makes his chest flare up with anger, a bitter  _ this isn’t fair _ that he needs to let go of but can’t because it  _ made  _ him—

But right now, all Tucker can mumble is a half-assed, “I know.” It’s a shitty response, but Dr. Grey seems to take the acknowledgement anyway. 

“I’m here to do one last check-up before you’re cleared to leave the hospital,” she continues, and Tucker blinks. Right. He forgot about that, again. “Do you want to do this alone?”

Tucker glances at Caboose, who’s staring back at him without any judgement, just the same vulnerable look of concern. Shame and guilt burn in his chest, and maybe it’s written on his face as well. 

“It’s okay,” Caboose says, tentative but sincere, the first words he’s spoken since Dr. Grey arrived. He slowly gets to his feet, reaching over and squeezing Tucker’s shoulder. Tucker sees his hand tighten around the Epsilon unit at the same time. “I will wait outside.”

He says it as a question, almost. Tucker nods, and Caboose makes his way to the door.

When it shuts behind him, Dr. Grey steps closer to the bed, lifting her scanner. She waves it around at Tucker a few times. She makes it look a lot more professional than Doc does.

“Physically, you’ve recovered well,” she says after a moment. “In a minute, I want to see you walk around a little, to make sure you’ll be okay. Of course, you still can’t do any strenuous activities once you’re out.” She lowers the scanner and looks at him sternly, but the edges of her gaze soften with concern. “But the trauma doesn’t go away that quickly. Stop by my office at least once a week to talk. We’ll try half an hour each time.”

“I…” Tucker swallows down the instinctive protest rising in his throat, despite the churn in his stomach. It’s not like Dr. Grey is asking, anyway. “A-alright.” 

“Good.” Dr. Grey puts the scanner down, studying him. There isn’t any pity in her eyes, thankfully, but the sharpness reminds him too much of unfriendlier gazes. He knows her genuine concern from his false sympathy, but it still makes part of him tense up with wariness.

Tucker takes a deep breath, trying to ease away from the lingering voices in his head. At least he’ll be out of here soon, away from reminders of the operating room, and able to actually do something that isn’t sitting around twiddling his thumbs all day. Maybe he can make himself useful somewhere, to take his mind off itself. 

The thought barely lightens the weight on his chest. He just wishes that it counted more. 

  
  
  


An hour later Tucker finds himself outside the hospital with Caboose, breathing fresh air again. There’s only a little shakiness left to his step as Caboose walks him to his quarters, and he manages to get rid of it by the time they arrive. 

It feels a little bit better—or different, at least—to be out of a hospital and in his own room. The others hovering over him 24/7 was getting really tiring, even though they meant well. 

But the first night Tucker goes to sleep in his room, it feels too big and too empty. He drifts to the sound of voices and shattering glass, restless. He keeps seeing flashes in the darkness that seems to press in on him from all sides, and he wakes up with her name burning on the tip of his tongue.

Okay, a little bit better is an overstatement. Tucker didn’t get his hopes up that things would be on the upswing once he was out, and yet part of him still aches at how off-kilter it all seems now.

Nothing feels like it used to. Outside of the hospital, Wash and Caboose and Dr. Grey are easier to dodge, but the memories and the guilt aren’t. Even without the harsh bright lights glaring down on him all the time, his stream of consciousness pinballs on its own through multiple minds’ worth of recollections, filling both sleeping and waking hours.

He  _ tries _ to take his mind off itself. He takes some walks outside, but he keeps seeing people glancing at him as he passes by. Tucker has no idea what rumors were spread about what happened in the med tent, and he’s sure he doesn’t want to know. Kimball shoos him away with a gentle but resounding  _ no _ when he asks if he can help with anything she’s doing, despite how tired she looks, and he’s pretty sure Dr. Grey would instantly murder him if he went anywhere near the training rooms. 

So that leaves the mess hall, which is pretty far from his first choice of  _ doing something _ because it also involves socializing, and wow, it sounds pretty fucking pathetic when he says it like that but he really doesn’t have the energy. Except he also doesn’t have the energy to argue when Caboose knocks on his door at noon and says he agreed to go eat lunch with the others, which Tucker has no memory of, but that’s pretty par for the course. 

He takes a shower before heading out and braces himself for how it might go. He hasn’t seen the Reds since waking up. He doesn’t know how they’re going to react, or even how he wants them to.

There used to be regulated lunch breaks, in between all the training. Now, of course, people come and go whenever they want, so it’s less crowded when Tucker and Caboose arrive. They get their food quickly, and Tucker follows Caboose towards the cluster of tables across the room.

The others are sitting around a table in the far corner. Donut spots them first, and immediately springs up out of his seat, striding towards them.

“Tucker!” he exclaims. For a mildly terrifying moment Tucker thinks he’s going to go in for a hug, but instead Donut just pats him on the shoulder. “It’s so good to see you!”

He sounds genuine, and also...a bit tearful? Tucker blinks, unsteady, and tries to smile. “Hey, Donut.”

He looks past him at the table. Simmons is elbowing Grif to get him to look up from his food. Andersmith waves at them, smiling, and Wash inclines his head slightly, watching them with a look still softened by worry.

“Captain Tucker, Captain Caboose,” Smith greets, beaming as they approach the table. “Glad to see you two.” 

“Glad you’re not dead,” Grif says. Then, a bit too casually and quickly, “Fair warning, the mess hall food didn’t get any better while you were gone. It’s better than the hospital food, though.” 

“The hospital food wasn’t even for you!” Simmons says, indignant. He glances at Tucker, though he doesn’t quite look him in the eye. “I just got out last week and  _ fatass _ over here kept eating my food.”

“Hey, a guy’s gotta keep himself fed—”

_ “I  _ was the one who got shot, Grif!”

At least those two aren’t any different. Tucker slides into the empty spot beside Wash while they keep bickering, placing his tray down. Caboose sits next to Smith across from them.

“Hey,” Wash says, meeting his gaze. There’s a concern written all over his face, even if he tries to hide it. “How have you been?”

Tucker attempts a smile. “Fine.” He picks up his fork. He isn’t hungry, even though he hadn’t really been consistently eating the meals brought to him in the hospital room. “Better.”

Somehow the lies have gotten even heavier on his tongue. But Wash just stares at him, brow furrowing. He reaches over and lightly squeezes his arm. “Good. That’s good.”

His voice is genuine, understanding, even as it sees straight through him. A hard-earned empathy. Tucker immediately feels a spark of guilt, but he shoves it away and blurts out, “What about you? Finally getting some sleep?”

Maybe it’s unfair. But Wash’s eyebags don’t look like they’ve gotten any better, and his composure breaks for a split second before he looks away quickly, breaking eye contact. “Some.”

That’s unconvincing as hell, but Tucker can’t talk. Still, he studies the tension in Wash’s shoulder, like he’s carrying an exhausting weight. It’s the same as when Wash stayed overnight in Tucker’s hospital room, dozing off for just a few hours at a time in a plastic chair. Now, Tucker isn’t in the hospital anymore, but...Carolina is.

Worry coils tightly in Tucker’s chest, and he has to take a moment to breathe, tightening his grip on the fork. For a moment, he considers asking Wash about her, but he doesn’t want to risk anything in front of the others. He already had to subject Caboose to it. They don’t need to deal with everything going on in his head. 

He glances over at Caboose, who’s uncharacteristically quiet as he fiddles with the Epsilon unit. Donut seems to be trying to rope him into a conversation with Smith, but he’s staring into space, his food also untouched.

Tucker swallows. He doesn’t know how to _look after him_ like Church told him to, in a message that already put too much weight on his shoulders. He doesn’t know how to do just about anything anymore, in this fallout. Nothing slots into place like it used to, splintered fragments collapsing into an A.I.-shaped black hole. No matter how casual Tucker tries to act, no matter how much the others also make an effort, it doesn’t feel the same.

He notices Simmons sneaking looks at him mid-argument with Grif when he thinks Tucker isn’t looking, and he’s pretty sure Grif considers giving him one of his disgustingly old snacks, though he evidently changes his mind and just scarfs it down. Donut is much less obvious about hiding his glances at him. Smith is as polite as he normally is—but he’s the only one who might not know about Church’s memories, and Tucker’s sure he has a bunch of questions that he isn’t asking because he’s basically the only lieutenant in this army with tact.

It feels...weird. They’re still tiptoeing around him, around the events on the Staff of Charon, and as much Tucker knows he can’t handle thinking about it, he hates this stiffness, this caution. They mean well, and yet he still can’t shake the feeling of wrongness, the taint to everyone’s gazes as they look at him.

He  _ knew _ eating in the mess hall wasn’t such a good idea, he thinks to himself as he pokes at his food with the fork. There are too many eyes and ears for the memories and voices in his head. He doesn’t know if he can ever get used to it, feeling these emotions that don’t belong to him, worry and grief and paranoia as overwhelming as resentment and the ever-present ache of something being missing. 

A light touch on his shoulder startles him. He looks over at Wash, who stares back with empathy that somehow makes Tucker feel worse, guilt and anger unfurling inside him.

Wash squeezes his shoulder and doesn’t say anything, his gaze sliding back to Donut and Caboose in a quiet, subtle support. Tucker makes sure no one is looking at the moment and lifts his unsteady hand to place it on Wash’s, curling his fingers gently around his.

Wash has been through something so similar it aches, and Tucker holds onto some remnants of it in his head, unable to let go. He remembers the nightmares Wash used to have, the exhaustion wielded like a weapon that he always carried around with him. But now he  _ remembers— _ the operating room, the excruciating pain of having Epsilon shoved into his implants. The lingering aftermath of paranoia and distance.

Now it’s happening all over again. Church is gone and the rest of them are here without him, still short one piece. 

_ The fragments I’ll leave behind will have the strength to get you through this. _

Yeah, sure, in that battle, powering the Meta suit because Tucker may be good but he’s not good enough to get them out of this by himself, because no matter how hard he tries he always seems to run things into the ground and get people killed. But in this scorched aftermath, his implants crackling with pain, Tucker doesn’t know how to get through something as simple as fucking  _ lunch,  _ with shattered memories tainting every single thought he thinks is his own.

So the food remains untouched, and the words remain unspoken. Tucker spends the next half-hour on autopilot. He lets Grif steal the hard, basically inedible biscuit from his tray. He tries to tune out the weird looks that he’s getting, and even holds a short conversation with Smith about the rebuilding project he’s overseeing, though he doesn’t remember anything he says. 

Nothing feels the same no matter how much he pretends. Hours later he’ll be back in his room, alone, and it’ll feel no better than being surrounded by the others. The silence is as heavy as their stares, and both can’t compare to the memories that weigh down on his chest and wear down on his mind.

In the wake, there’s no getting used to the quiet.


End file.
